What Happened to the Bennetts(71)

The BMW turned right at the sign, and I followed, heading uphill toward a massive structure of gray corrugated metal, several stories tall. It had vented chimneys and a long flat roof with large security lights at the corners. The parking lot was to the right, empty except for a few cars. My stomach tightened as I wondered if any of them belonged to Big George.

The BMW accelerated into the lot, then Nerone jammed on the brakes, parking with an unnecessary screech. He jumped out of the car, brandishing a gun, which I had expected. I didn’t have the upper hand anymore, but I had expected that, too.

“Get out your hands up!” Nerone shouted as I parked the car, cut the ignition, and got out, raising my hands.

“Is he here yet?”

“Shut up!” Nerone patted me down with his free hand, then lifted up my shirt.

“I’m not armed.” I assumed he was looking for a wire. I had guessed they’d pat me down. My gun was in the glove box.

“Get going!” Nerone waved the gun toward a door in the corrugated fa?ade of the composting plant.

I went that way, with him at my heels. A motion-detector light switched on, illuminating the area, and I looked around quickly, getting my bearings. On the far side of the fa?ade was a massive garage door, wide and tall enough to admit heavy trucks. The door was rolled up halfway.

Nerone opened the entrance door. We entered a dark hallway. I felt his gun in my spine. I walked down a hallway lined with windowless doors. At the end was a door with a plastic window. Light shone through the plastic.

“Go,” Nerone ordered.

I opened the door onto a massive garage with a stained concrete floor, pooling water here and there. Two dump trucks were parked in bays on the right. The room reeked of mushroom compost, the stench intensified by moisture and heat.

“Keep going.”

I walked the length of the garage, past racks of heavy-duty hoses. We reached another corrugated wall with a double door. We were near the end of the building. My gut tightened. Whatever was going to happen would happen here.

“Hurry.”

I opened the double door onto a huge storage area with a corrugated metal ceiling. Bags were stacked in rows on wooden pallets reaching two stories high. Overhead a row of oversize industrial fans whirred, thrumming loudly.

“Up ahead.”

I kept going. The storage area felt still, so I assumed we were the first to arrive. The stacked bags ended, and I stepped into the clearing. Opposite me was another stack of bags lining a center aisle, ending in a back entrance with another windowless door.

“Stay here.” Nerone slid his gun into his waistband. “They’ll be here soon.”

They. So Big George Veria wasn’t coming alone.

I braced myself.





Chapter Forty-Five



I saw the back door opening, and a silhouette entered the storage room. It moved down the center aisle toward us.

It wasn’t Big George.

It was Milo. Alone. Big George wasn’t with him.

My jaw clenched. It was my worst-case scenario.

My mind raced. I realized Nerone must’ve called Milo, who said he would call Big George, but he must not have. I was down to Plan Z.

I hadn’t seen Milo since the night he killed Allison. I met his menacing gaze with a fury that I could barely suppress. “Where’s the boss?” I made myself say.

Nerone crossed to Milo. “Yeah, I thought he was coming.”

“Shut up,” Milo snapped, never taking his eyes from me. Nerone stepped next to him. Two against one.

Is this how I die?

“It won’t work, Milo,” I told him. “I took care of it already, in case you showed up alone. Tomorrow Big George will know you lied to him. You killed Junior and you’re an FBI informant.”

Milo blinked.

“Wait, you’re a snitch?” Nerone’s mouth dropped open. He pulled his gun from his waistband and fired—a split second after Milo pulled a gun and fired first, blasting away. Orange flames flew from the muzzles. The sound deafened me, the fusillade echoing in the space.

Milo’s hand flew to his upper arm. Nerone’s chest exploded in bloody shots. He crumpled to the ground.

“Help!” came a scream from behind me. I had no idea anybody was there. It must have been a security guard.

Milo swiveled his head to the sound, momentarily distracted. It was my only chance. I turned around and ran for my life.

Milo chased me, firing. A bullet whizzed past my temple. I felt the hot, percussive wave.

Someone was screaming, “Help, 911! I’m being shot at! I’m at Valley Composting!”

I burst through the door and ran down the hallway. I heard shots behind me. Milo was killing whoever was calling 911. Their frantic shouting ended in silence.

I reached the exit door and flew through. I raced to my car, jumped in, and twisted on the ignition.

Milo ran from the exit door after me, blasting away. A bullet shattered a window in my back seat.

I floored the pedal and raced downhill to the main road. Momentum sped my way. There was no time to get my gun.

Headlights appeared in my rearview mirror. Milo was chasing me in a dark SUV.

I kept the pedal to the floor. I gripped the wheel with all my might. The tires bobbled. I had to get to the main road. I was getting closer and closer. Cars traveled back and forth, then a tractor-trailer.