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At least I could maybe get a little sleep at night for a change.
I’d been barely able to catch an hour or two for a week, since I’d first heard about the dog fighting ring from some asshole having an actual phone conversation about it at my work one day.
From there, it had been a mission for me.
I was eating, breathing, and not sleeping about the whole operation since.
I knew when the shop opened and closed, how many people worked there, what they looked like, what cars they drove, which direction the cameras pointed in.
I even knew how many people to expect to be there on a fight night—which took place twice a week.
Was it risky?
Oh, hell yes.
Was I incredibly brave?
Ah, hell no, actually.
Hence the sweating. And not being able to keep any food down for the past twenty-four hours. And, you know, the way my whole body felt like it was trembling as I made my way into the built-up lower level in my quietest shoes.
Yes, I’d tried all of them on to test out their quietness.
I guess I figured it would be nearly soundless inside.
Which was pretty stupid of me, in hindsight.
Of course it would be loud. Lots of dogs stress-barking and whimpering and scratching to get out of their cramped little cages.
The cages was where I kind of screwed up.
I hadn’t anticipated them being dead-bolted shut.
As we already established, I was a rookie criminal. I knew how to open a BILCO door without it screaming—a plan that involved a walk-by WD-40 spraying.
And, yeah, that was as far as I had gotten in my new criminal lifestyle journey.
So I knew nothing about opening a lock.
After a frustrating attempt, I heard footsteps coming toward the back of the jewelry store above, and I knew enough about the layout to know that the back room was where the stairs were that led downstairs.
I was running out of time.
“I’m sorry. I’m so so so so sorry,” I told the dog whose face was inches from mine with the lock that refused to budge.
Turning, I saw a dog I had missed when I’d run in.
A gray bully with a broad head and sad gray eyes stuck in a corner with a chain biting into her neck, the other end of it clipped to a hook in the wall.
I didn’t stop to think.
I just ran over, yanked off the chain, scooped her up, and ran like my freaking ass was on fire.
Yes, ass.
Sure, hair was the more common vernacular.
But I was pretty sure my ass being on fire would be even more startling.
