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Ice nods his head in a silent command for me to go check it out, so I turn off my bike and put the kickstand down.
“Check the temperature,” Ice clips before pulling out his phone, no doubt giving Screech an update on our location and if we are hot or cold here.
Striding up to the front door, I see the blinds next door move and know I have eyes on me. This means I can’t go sneaking around the outside of the house, looking through windows and shit for a sign of life. With my luck, whoever is spying on me will call the cops, thinking I’m trying to rob the place. Therefore, I knock on the front door, hoping that someone will answer. Three knocks and five minutes later, nothing.
Turning around, I give Ice a shake of my head. We need to head to the workplace.
The two of us leave the home address and hit the road again, this time to a place fifteen minutes away.
Anthony works at Recycled Containers Inc., where they take used and dirty industrial containers of all sizes, cleaning and sanitizing them so they can be recycled and put back out for use. It doesn’t appear to be one of those all-night operations, though, because it’s six-thirty in the afternoon and there’s only one car in the parking lot. Anthony’s.
We park our bikes behind the building so hopefully no one notices us. Then Ice approaches the back of the warehouse, gun drawn and ready for anything. As always, I’m at my brother’s back, watching his six, as we step through the double doors and into the building.
The first thing I notice as the doors close behind us is the most godawful smell I have ever smelt. There is no doubt that it’s the smell of death, but worse. It’s dark and tainted.
Immediately, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, telling me whatever we are about to find is not going to be good.
Keeping our guns drawn and ready, we make our way through the large space, with machinery and containers of all sizes blocking our view. Clearing it section by section, rows of machines and industrial-sized drums, we end up toward the front of the warehouse.
The smell grows stronger the closer we come to the front, yet there’s not a dead body in sight. I look around the space as Ice shakes his head, no doubt fighting his own need to vomit, like me.
At the front entrance, there is a fifty-five-gallon steel drum. However, this drum isn’t just sitting around the way all the others are—lined up on shelves and ready for distribution. No, it is positioned on top of a brace that is holding it up over a small portable gas fueled fire pit.
I look over at my prez to see the man staring at the barrel, a look of dread on his face. There is no lid, but I’m not close enough to see whatever it is that Ice is looking at.
Inching closer, the contents come into view, and I almost throw up at the sight.
Inside the barrel is red, murky water with chunks of meat floating on top. Problem is, this isn’t a fucking beef stew. There’s a head floating on top, with blisters covering the face that is frozen with its mouth open in a silent scream for help. I’m pretty sure that’s Anthony’s head, but the blisters are so bad it’s hard to tell. It doesn’t take long for me to realize the rest of him has been cut up into pieces, submerged beneath the boiling surface.
Bile rises up my throat. I barely keep myself from puking. This has to be, by far, the most fucked-up thing I have ever seen, and that’s saying something because I have seen some seriously fucked-up things in my life.
Ice secures his weapon and pulls out his phone.
“Confirmation,” he clips to me as I put my back to his with my own gun at the ready.
I begin taking mental notes of the crime scene, making sure to keep my eyes and ears open for any movement while Ice takes pics of the sight in front of him.
“Gonna send this to the brain?” I ask for verification, knowing he’s going to send the pics to Screech before we make another move.
We came too late, and now there is nothing we can do but get the hell out of here and cover our tracks as we go.
Ice and I start backing out, guns still drawn in case the psycho who did this is still in the building. Ice leads the way, with me at his back, walking backward so we have the front and back entrances covered. Once we are outside, we double-time it to our machines, get on, and ride away as if nothing is wrong inside that place. We can’t draw attention to ourselves in case someone happens to be watching the area.
