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There’s no way he ate all six of them between last night and this afternoon. Same as the times I’ve dropped off whole loaves of banana or pumpkin bread. So he must be transferring them into something else.
Maybe it’s a respect thing? Like he wants to return my belongings to me as quickly as possible?
I take another long pull through my straw.
I try my hardest to pay attention to the slideshow that just appeared on the screen. Everyone gets so excited about these new product launches, and I appreciate that they want to include me, but really… I don’t care. I’m not sure it’s possible for me to care less.
Human resources is my job, not my passion, and learning about commercial building materials is of zero interest to me. It really is just a job I fell into that I happen to be good at. So… yeah.
I’m swallowing more of my latte when motion outside catches my attention.
Forgetting all about the meeting, I turn my head and watch as Hans pulls his pickup out of his garage.
CHAPTER7
Hans
I stretchmy back when I finally climb out of my front seat and bite down on the groan I want to let out.
Six hours of sitting in the car after the brief adrenaline jolt of nearly being found by my neighbor means my muscles are tight.
My neck protests as I roll it one way, then the other, before I walk around to the back of my truck.
The bar’s parking lot is packed, but only a few people are outside the building, and none are close enough to watch me as I lower the tailgate.
Under the light of a yellowing streetlamp, I use my thumbnail to flick up a tiny hidden door in the bed, then press my thumb pad to the small black square beneath.
Nero Security makes some pretty good locks. And thanks to having plenty of time and money on my hands, I was able to utilize these fingerprint locks to secure several hidden chambers in my truck bed. The compartments conceal a multitude of weapons that would see me in prison for the rest of my lifetime if anyone were clever enough to find them.
But I have a fail-safe for that.
The lock clicks, and after I press down on the nearest section of the bed, a four-foot-wide piece pops open on a spring hinge.
This is my most used selection. And it’s aselection.
Handguns, knives of varying lengths, a grenade… the usual.
My lower back twinges as I reach for one of the knives, and I decide that tonight is a night for ease.
I still take the knife, tucking it into the sheath at my side, but then I reach for the Glock. And the silencer. And three prefilled clips of ammo.
Pressing the lid closed, I make sure to hear the lock reengage, then I lower the tiny door to hide the thumbprint reader and flip the tailgate back up.
The summer air is thick with humidity, but the temperature has dropped to tolerable degrees, meaning no one will look twice at me in my black jeans and the nondescript dark flannel I put on over my T-shirt.
The flannel is unbuttoned, the open edges flapping a little as I stride across the parking lot, but my lowered arms keep the fabric from pulling too far back and revealing the shoulder holster I have on beneath.
I cut through the handful of intoxicated people standing near the bar entrance and smoking cigarettes, and enter the poorly lit building behind them.
The bouncer at the door slides a bored gaze my way, but I look every one of my thirty-nine years, probably more, so he doesn’t ask for ID.
But if he did, I have one on me. It’s not my photo or my name, but it’s close enough to work.
Country music blares through speakers mounted to the ceiling, and I do my best to tune it out as I slant my body between groups of people, making my way to the back corner, toward the hall that disappears into the dark.
I enter the hallway.
And I move past the bathrooms, past the storage room, past the locked walk-in cooler. And I end up at the very end of the hall. And the final door, hiding the final room.
