I take the weight that’s pitted in my belly, wrap it in a kerosene-soaked blanket, and drop a match in. This pain has to have a purpose. I can’t let anything like this happen to Bree, or Bryce, or anyone else, ever again.
Even though the air is crisp and cool, sweat soaks through the back of my shirt, the fabric sticking uncomfortably as I crouch in the back of the van. My pulse thumps in my throat in time with the swirl of fury in my heart.
Abraham signals a right turn, and Vaughn plants a hand on the metal wall for balance. Mimicking him, I place my palms on the floor. Lucky Stixx gets to ride up front, where there are actual seatbelts. I didn’t even say goodbye to Cliff.
We pull onto Bristol Street, a spur off of Platts Mill Road. The old Platt Brothers factory is just a short walk over.
“Let’s creep up on them, watch for a minute,” I tell the men with me, passing around the ski masks.
“Rui’s gonna fucking kill me if I get arrested,” Abraham says, but yanks his mask on anyway.
We jump out of the van, closing doors gently so the sound doesn’t echo over to the factory. The night presses down on us, lit only by the orange glow of old street lights. Out here, I can make out some of the stars.
“Let’s get this over with,” Abraham says.
“Olivia, you take point. This is your kill,” Stixx tells me.
“Now, now,” I remind him with an exaggerated wink he probably can’t see. “Ravage said no blood.”
Yet it’s blood I want.
Read A Fatal Prospect Now
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