Not Jeremy
Mack put on his new-car-salesman smile before he even finished the handshake. “I’m Mack,” he said, voice varnished smooth. “This wasn’t easy to pull. But I’m confident we got what you’re looking for.”
Linda didn’t smile back. She had two men with her—real muscle, not the discount kind. Carl wore flat black cargo pants and a sleeveless muscle T-shirt, the kind that didn’t brag, it just told the truth.
Carl didn’t posture. He didn’t need to. You don’t posture with arms built from lifting things that fought back.
“Carl,” Linda said.
Carl moved like a switch had been thrown—no wasted steps, no flexing for the crowd. His hand closed around the back of Mack’s neck, big and unhurried, and Mack stiffened like a dog feeling the chain tighten. He didn’t even finish the little “hey now” rising in his throat before Carl pivoted him toward the door.
The sound of their boots faded down the concrete bay. Then came a short, meaty thud and the soft thunk of a trunk closing—quick, efficient, final. The noise hung in the air, faintly metallic, like it knew exactly what it meant.
Silky’s breath hitched like a misfired engine. She moved between Linda and the boys without thinking, a jittering wall of fear and nerve. Her hands were slick, knees locked. A stale breeze drifted through the half-open bay door carrying the burnt-oil tang of the shop floor. Somewhere behind her, one kid cracked open a Happy Meal toy and it made a sharp little pop like a starter pistol.
“You’re the one who called me,” Linda said.
“But not the one who wanted to do this,” Silky mouthed, voice barely making it past her teeth.
Linda scanned the room once, fast and exact. None of these boys had Jeremy’s face. Too short. Too dark. Wrong eyes. Not him.
“How many kids?”
“Seventeen.”
“I see fifteen.”
“Two in the bathroom.”
The fluorescent lights above them hummed softly—an insect-wing drone that made the silence louder.
“Whose idea were the Happy Meals?”
“Mine,” Silky said. “Cost thirty-seven bucks.”
Linda fished a couple of twenties from her pocket and laid them down on a bench like she was tipping a deserving barmaid. The bills made a dry papery whisper on the cold metal.
“Mack? Was that his name?”
Silky nodded, noticing the redhead had already slipped into past tense.
“A guy like Mack always keeps a rainy-day fund. A smart girl might know where.”
“She might,” Silky said. Her voice trembled in the middle like a frayed wire.
“And what would a smart girl do with money like that?”
Silky swallowed. “Get her ass out of Dodge.”
“He’d probably have some pills or candy mixed in with the cash,” Linda added.
“He would,” Silky whispered.
“Leave the candy. Take the cash.”
Linda turned slightly toward her other man. “Give me fifteen minutes to get clear. Then get clear yourself and drop a dime. It won’t take the cops more than three minutes to get here, and I doubt these boys get in any trouble in that window.”
A plastic cup tipped over near the bench with a hollow clack that made Silky flinch. One of the boys laughed softly, grease on his fingers, sauce on his chin—completely unaware that the air in the room had just shifted from bad to dangerous.
Linda walked toward the door, boots whispering on the concrete. She didn’t look at the kids. She didn’t need to. Her eyes brushed across Silky instead—a quick, measuring glance, cold as a razor’s edge. A test, and a promise.
Then she was gone.