Page 20 of Wild Devil
“You won’t,” I say. “Now get in the van and let Ben drive. He’ll get you someplace safe, and then I’ll meet up with you.”
“Okay. I do love you, you crazy son of a bitch,” she says, pulling me into a hug. “I do. And when it comes down to you and anyone else in the world except my kid, and Sam, you know that I will pick you every single time.”
“Don’t get all mushy on me now,” I say, pulling back. “Just get on the road. I’ll meet up with you when I can. Keep Sam safe.”
She sighs, eyeing me up and down. “You never have to ask me for that. Take care of yourself, Daze.”
“I very much intend to.”
Standing on the curb, I watch her until the second she’s in the van, and it takes off—with Ben behind the wheel—and turns the corner a few blocks away. Then I approach the garage, unsure of what the fuck I’ll even find. As skeptical as I am, I doubt Silas would store anything illegal here. He has the Saints’ warehouses for that and a network to funnel any shit out of the city. So, what in the hell could he want to hide in the garage of a residential neighborhood in the suburbs?
A part of me wants to suspect that it’s nothing valuable. Just something small to test Lyra’s willingness before he used her house to smuggle dope later down the road.
But…
The rest of me isn’t quite that convinced. That part is why I’m armed with at least two weapons, just in case. Silas has the entire Saints’ network to launder his dirty work, but he would only hide something in Lyra’s that he wanted guarded. Something he didn’t trust to keep in his own house or with any of his lackeys. Something, perhaps, he wanted to keep hidden even from Heywood himself.
And there are very few things in the world that could be.
I’m already stiffening with dread as I unlock the door and enter the dusty space. She has shit from decades ago in here. Dad’s old bike. A cradle from the Stone Ages. At the very back of the room, behind an old stereo system, is a large old-fashioned military-style trunk with a key lock. I lift it, expecting it to be heavy, but it’s light. Too light to be a shipment of illegal weapons, at least. Still, I’m curious the longer I stare at it and try to figure out what the hell Silas could have inside it.
He didn’t leave Lyra the key. Luckily for me, she kept some tools in here apart from the museum of old memories. I find a crowbar and make short work of the lock. As I crouch to lift the lid, I start laughing to myself. After all this trouble, it would be fitting if all I found inside were some old mementos that Silas was too embarrassed to leave lying around his house. An old teddy bear or some shit. Maybe actual insurance paperwork like Lyra thought.
When I finally heft the lid open, a stack of bureaucratic documents isn’t what I see. Neither is it cocaine or heroin.
In a sense, I suspect it’s something far worse than all those things combined.
And it’s the one tool I can use to take down Heywood.
Incredulous, all I can do is laugh louder at the sight. “Well, fuck.”
I don’t know what I expected. A murder weapon tied to some series of unsolved crimes? Silas’ soul, for fuck’s sake?
Anything but a bunch of old newspaper clippings, detailing possible cartel hits, along with a stack of documents in a folder with the Heywood name stamped onto the front. I flip through it, unsure of what I’ll find. Then I spot one page in particular that makes me freeze. It looks like a fairly-new copy of a much older will. The name at the top? Abagail Heywood.
“…the bastard’s already inside.” The unfamiliar voice comes from outside, accompanied by a set of heavy footsteps traipsing through Lyra’s overgrown garden.
Fuck. Just my luck. I could leave the documents behind, but at the last minute, I decide to tuck them under one arm while opening the door with the other hand.
From the corner of my eye, I catch movement flicker around the side of the structure. Paired with the still-advancing footsteps from the other end, I count at least two potential attackers. Apparently, Silas has his boys watching Lyra’s place after all.
But why choose now to strike?
In all honesty, I don’t fucking care for their reasons.
I lunge as the first motherfucker comes into view. He barely manages to choke out a grunt before I have him pinned to the ground with a knife at his throat. He gapes at me wide-eyed, scrambling to reach for his hip. I beat him to the punch, finding a pistol holstered just beneath the fall of his leather jacket.
Silas isn’t playing around, it seems.
But neither am I.
Pulling the weapon free, I ram the butt of it against the bastard’s skull, rendering him unconscious. Then I lurch upright and pivot just in time to catch the second punk racing from around the garage.
“You fucked up, Daze,” he tells me, his face contorted in a snarl. I don’t recognize him, meaning he signed up with Silas long after I left the Saints. He’s even wearing our patch on the sleeve of his leather jacket, and I feel disgust wash over me. “Just leave it alone and bounce,” he demands, his hands in the air. “You don’t want this smoke, trust me.”
“Fuck you,” I counter, aiming at his head. “And fuck Silas. I’m not going to kill you, though. I want you to deliver a little message for me—I have what he’s been hiding. If he wants it, he can fucking come for it.”
I wait until the bastard makes the mistake of trying to reach for his own gun. Then I do pull the trigger, striking him in the leg. He slumps over, howling like a goddamn animal, but I only pause long enough to pick up his gun from where it fell and take off through the alley before one of Lyra’s neighbors calls the cops.