Family Money(63)

From the fence, Greta hustled toward the back of the warehouse building with me right on her heels. I glanced up away from us and noticed a couple of guys out back near a dumpster, smoking cigarettes. They didn’t seem to be paying too much attention. We reached the rear of the building and then scooted closer to the back door where we felt Joe was being held. Greta put her hand on the doorknob and turned. It was unlocked. She then inched the door open slightly, peered inside.

“Kid was right,” she said. “There’s a back room. Two guys sitting outside of it with assault rifles nearby. They’re playing cards.”

“Anyone else inside with guns?”

“Not that I can tell. Normal warehouse workers. Are you ready?”

“How do we get past the two guys with assault rifles?”

“Bullets.”

I felt my adrenaline surge. Pulling out the gun Greta had given me, I held it in somewhat shaky hands. I could feel my heart pounding. Was I really about to walk into a gunfight? But then I thought about the deaths I’d already encountered this past week. Ethan Tucker. Raul Sanchez. And my father-in-law was next in line if we didn’t get in there soon. This was the only way.

Swallowing my fear, I said, “I’m ready.”

“In and out,” she reiterated.

“Got it.”

Greta turned back to the door, opened it, and slipped inside. I moved in right behind her. Rows upon rows of tall metal shelves lined with crates and boxes sat in front of us. Guys running big forklifts moved up and down the rows, retrieving and distributing items. It looked like any normal warehouse operation. But then my attention quickly shifted to the two men sitting right outside of a plain white door with playing cards in their hands and assault rifles leaning next to them. Greta moved right toward them, her gun aimed. They looked up, startled, but before they could even make a move, she fired off two shots. The first one hit the guy on the left square in the forehead; the second did the same with the guy on the right. Both men immediately fell backward. I wondered if the gunshots could be heard with so much loud noise inside the warehouse. But I didn’t look around to find out. I was already racing over to the back room.

I flung the door open, stared inside. The man I loved with my whole heart looked up at me from his curled-up position sitting on the floor against the wall. Joe was alive. But he looked worse than I’d ever seen him. His face was badly bruised and broken. He still had on the same T-shirt and shorts as when he was taken the other day, but they were covered in dirt and grime and what looked like dried blood. There was nothing else in the room with him other than a metal tray with food on the floor next to him. My father-in-law was staring up at me, but it was almost as if he thought he was seeing things. He just squinted at me and didn’t even respond.

Shoving the gun back into my pants, I rushed over and knelt beside him. “Joe, it’s me. Alex.”

This made him sit up. “Alex . . . ?”

“Yes, I’m here. But I’ve got to get you out of here right now.”

“But . . . how . . . ?”

“There’s no time for that. Later.”

I grabbed his arm to lift him up, which made him grimace in pain. This was clearly not going to be easy. I had no choice but to make him suffer through these movements in order get him out of here alive. Yanking him to his feet, I pulled him all the way up. Joe groaned and tightened up on me. Putting my shoulder under his arm, I dragged him toward the door. When I got to the door, Greta poked her head inside. There was a quick expression of relief on her face at the sight of Joe before she turned more serious again.

“We’ve got to go,” she ordered. “We’ve already got company.”

When we stepped back out of the room, I noticed that a few of the warehouse workers had started to wander in our direction, probably wondering what the hell was going on back here. Greta lifted her gun at them and began pointing. When they didn’t move right away, she fired two rounds right over their heads. This made them immediately start to scatter. We had Joe out the back door a few seconds later. When I realized he couldn’t walk at all, I lifted my father-in-law up over my shoulder to carry him to safety.

Just like he’d carried me for so many years.





FORTY-THREE


We didn’t even make it back to the security fence line where we’d entered the property before a green military-style truck screeched around the corner of the warehouse and sped right toward us. I looked over, spotted two guys with assault rifles in the back bed of the truck. They were about fifty yards from us but making up swift ground. They would be on us in seconds.

“We’re not going to make it!” I yelled toward Greta.

She turned, surveyed the situation. I tried to pull my own gun out of my pants, but it was too cumbersome while holding Joe. I set him down beside me while keeping my shoulder under his arm to keep him from collapsing. Joe kept grimacing and groaning and seemed incapable of aiding in his own escape. I wasn’t going to be able to help Greta in this gunfight. I would have to keep carrying the brunt of Joe’s weight.

“Get behind me,” Greta said, moving in between us and the approaching truck.

Greta aimed and fired her weapon. Bullets punctured the windshield directly in front of the driver. She must’ve hit him, because the truck immediately swerved out of control to our left, throwing the two men with rifles out of the truck bed. They hit the pavement hard and slid forward, their rifles flung in different directions. The truck kept speeding forward, where it collided into the security fence beside us and finally came to a stop. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel and not moving. He was probably dead.