Page 47 of Prospect Year

Tucking his hands into his pockets, he strolled toward the office door. The ‘closed’ sign flickered in the window. He glanced around the lot. Lorelei’s car was missing. Changing directions, he rounded the building, now heading for the large bay doors. Only one of them was open. He studied the unfamiliar car parked behind Mac’s truck as he strolled by.

He stepped inside and turned toward the break room to grab his bike key. He was scheduled to work the Landing today and had just enough time to speak to Mac and head out. Lifting the key from the hooks near the door, shouting brought Lola to a stop.

“Where is it?” the angry voice demanded.

Lola eased toward the dividing wall and peered around the corner. He only saw the man’s back. He leaned to his side. Mac was standing by the wash-up station with his hands by his head.

“You made me look a fool,” the man accused Mac. “Where’s the guns?”

“Snitches are fools, and the only gun in this place is in your hands,” Mac said. Lola knew Mac had spied him without adverting his focus from the threat.

Lola scanned the area nearby, choosing his weapon. He couldn’t take a chance to waste time going for one of the guns hidden in the bay. He must be quick with a reliable and precise aim.

“You should have laid low longer,” Mac commented, buying time.

“I’ve been watching. Your snooty secretary left, and that old coot of a mechanic hasn’t been here all day. You’re alone, and like you said, I have the gun.”

Lola kept a keen ear to the conversation as he searched the wall. Perfect. In three quick, long strides, Lola swung. The hammer slammed into the intruder’s skull with a force so strong, it cracked against the concrete floor upon impact. Sprawled on the floor before them, the body jerked only once before going limp, pools of blood and urine seeping into the cement.

Lola stared. His chest heavily rising and falling. Forcing his attention from the dark crimson growing around the mass of hair covering the bashed face, Lola jerked his head toward Mac.

“Fucker’s bleeding on my floor,” Mac complained as if this were a common occurrence. Stepping away, he rolled a cart out of the way and dragged a barrel toward the body. “Help me get him up.”

Lola tossed the hammer into the barrel, and with one on each side, they lifted the body, dropping the top half into the container and leaving the waist hanging over the side.

“Drop the doors,” Mac ordered.

Lola ran toward the pulley, rolling the doors to the floor, locking them. Turning back, he pushed out a breath and studied Mac, who appeared unfazed as he stood by the death barrel with his hands on his hips.

Moving back next to where Mac stood, Lola’s adrenaline began to fade into nausea.

“You can handle a hammer. Caught him right in the temple. He never saw it coming,” Mac praised.

“Dead?” Lola asked.

“Pretty sure,” Mac confirmed, glancing in the barrel. “If not, he will be.”

“Carpenter.” Lola’s voice was flat and low.

Mac cocked his head.

“I can handle a hammer. Was a carpenter for years back home.” He shook his head. “Before I moved here.”

“First one?” Mac asked.

First dead body? First kill? That would be a check to both. First also indicated more to come. Lola only nodded. Yes, this was his first.

Mac grinned. “You know you could have just let him shoot me. Then you’d had all this and never had to face me again.”

The humor in Mac’s voice flipped a switch in Lola. He searched the floor, spotting the dropped gun. “I could say he shot you and I retaliated out of grief,” he told Mac with a half-smile.

“Not too late,” Mac noted, leaning a hip against the sink and crossing his arms.

Lola studied Mac a moment, then jerked a shop towel from the nearby box. He turned and picked up the gun. Walking back toward Mac, he rolled it in the towel and placed it on the worktable next to him. “Recycle?”

Mac nodded, then said, “You have to make the call.”

“What call?”