Page 104 of Ricochet

“We did get a tip on Aubree Culling. Don’t know if it’s legit. Some kid, must’ve been thirteen, fourteen years old, said he was scrappin’ with some guys he knows from the streets. Said he found her in the woods near an abandoned mansion on Brush Park.”

“Brush Park?”

“Yeah. He was lookin’ for the reward. Told him to come back when you were in.”

“Fuck that kid. He comes back, tell him to get his ass in school. In the meantime, I’m going to check out this lead. See if it’s legit.”

CHAPTER 47

Nick

The SD card that held the gut-wrenching video of Lauren also carried the vital geolocation data that allowed me to trace where it’d been recorded.

Exactly as the sender hoped, I was sure.

The old Ironworks building had long been the most recognized machine shop, before it’d closed its doors in the early nineties. Located on Atwater, along the Detroit River, it was considered an eyesore, with its boarded up windows, broken glass and graffiti-colored walls, amid the businesses moving in there. Construction equipment stood rusted in the adjacent field, as if someone at some time had planned to do something with the shithole but then opted out. Perfect place to house a bunch of kidnapped girls to entertain the city’s most notorious crime lords.

I crouched across the street, along the river, concealed by the trees and brush, aware that every minute ticking by meant one less breath for Lauren. I’d already staked two eastside thugs using the ramp entrance, but no saying how many might’ve been inside. No sign of Culling, either.

They’d all be expecting me, though. I’d had to have my gun re-barreled for the custom silencer I attached to it, in the hope of keeping my arrival as undiscovered as possible.

Keeping to the shadows, I slipped along Atwater, toward the side of the building where a copse of bushes concealed a broken out window. Peeking inside revealed two men, dressed in black, smoking cigarettes as the AK’s in their hands dangled casually. They appeared to be alone in the small room off the larger machining area.

Through the scope of my M-24, I lined up my sights and shot twice. One bullet for each head. The men fell to the ground in a heap, and I climbed inside the building and lifted my gun, ready to shoot anything that moved.

As I passed the dropped men, I strapped one of their AK’s to my back and kept on to the next room.

A wall of steel separated my position from the open floor of the machining section of the building. Rounding the corner brought me to a large block of equipment, set along a wall that met a staircase to the second floor.

At a table in the center of the open room, a dozen men played cards, smoking and drinking, like a fucking friendly gathering of the city’s scum under one roof.

Pausing at the mouth of the stairs, cloaked behind the machines propped against the wall, I took a deep breath and swung the M-24 forward.

The first shot set the ball in motion. Like penetrating a mound of fire ants, the bastards would come scampering out of their hiding places, so as I ascended the stairs, I aimed for the men packing guns first—four casually standing about; three behind the men playing cards.

One.

Two.

Three.

Boom. Down.

And the game was on.

Bullets whizzed past my head like they’d just caught up with the program. I ducked behind the steel banister, scrambling up a few more stairs, before I stopped and shot again, taking out one more gunman.

The sound of gunshots bounced off the walls, as the dozen or so men below bolted out of their chairs and swarmed the open floor. I tugged the AK and bump-fired in rapid succession, blanketing the room from my vantage point, before they even had a chance.

At a flash of movement in my periphery, I aimed the gun toward the top of the staircase and took out two more men, keeping my pace as I went along, always moving. Had to keep moving.

Bullets pinged at my boots, bouncing off the steel. I targeted a male from the first floor, bleeding out his wounds as he crawled over gunned down bodies and tried to take me out. With one shot from the rifle, he fell back, a bullet in his head.

I kicked open a door, gun at the ready. On a dirty mattress butted against a concrete wall, a girl covered herself with a sheet. “Get dressed and get out. You’re free to go.”

At the next door, I kicked the wood open.

The whizz of a bullet grazed my ear, knocked me to the side. I leapt backward, striking two shots in the gunman’s chest on the way. Sucking in a deep fucking breath, I sent up a silent hallelujah and signaled for the girl to leave.