need a keycard to open.
To my left is a longer hall. A dark one without an overhead light. One that looks foreboding, yet for my intent and purpose, promising.
At the end of the hall I can make out the glint of a silver door handle.
Like any journalist worth their ink, I have to know what’s behind that door. Dashing down the hall, I wrap my fingers around the handle. My heart is beating so hard in my chest, I can hear the blood as it whooshes through my arteries.
Am I on the precipice of mortal danger? What will I find on the other side of this door? I have no idea, but something in my gut, an instinct older than time and stronger than my will to survive bubbles up, telling me to push down and open that door.
Even if I shouldn’t.
I follow the golden rule for good reporting—always listen to your gut.
I push the handle down and open the door slowly, grateful there’s no sound of a squeaky hinge. Peeking past the door, I find a large, dimly lit warehouse. The ceilings are high, the floors concrete. The place looks vacant.
Strange. I’d thought Bachman’s was next to Daughtry’s Clothing store. This must be some kind of shared hidden place behind them both. Finding nothing of use, I turn to head back to the jewelry store. As I’m closing the door, I hear the deep timbre of a man’s voice. One I’d recognize anywhere.
It belongs to Jet; the tall, broad-shouldered man with the ice blue eyes and sleek black hair. A newly initiated member of the Bachman Brotherhood and the man I’d first pegged to seduce in order to pen my tell-all about the family’s kinky sex lives.
I know him from around the city. We’ve danced at the Bachman family’s favorite club, Gotcha’s, him holding me close as we sway. Chatted at a few parties, always finding ourselves in a dark corner together, a light banter flowing between us.
Using all my womanly wiles and tricks of the trade, I tried to get him to hook up with me, but he declined, saying, “I don’t mix business with pleasure, unless I’m forced to,” whatever that meant.
Now I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I grab onto the words, mission, shipment, and danger.
Intriguing.
Stepping further into the big open space, I close the door quietly behind me. Tiptoeing toward the sound of the voice, I hold my breath, terrified to make a noise.
I see no one. And the talking has stopped. I look left, then right.
The place is eerily silent. Further in the warehouse are a few doors, mostly closed. There’s a blue glow coming from an opened door of a room in the back. I want a closer look, but my body freezes in fear.
Though the voices have gone, I sense I’m not alone. I feel eyes on me. Prickles raise on the back of my neck and I turn as slowly as one of those ridiculous girls in the murder mystery movies who know the killer is just behind them but still call out, “Who’s there?” anyway.
Only I say nothing, my words caught in my throat, unable to form a sound with my sandy dry tongue.
Materializing from the shadows, Jet stands before me, looming like a giant—one that wants to gobble me up. A thatch of black hair hangs over his eye and he brushes it out of the way to get a better look at me. “Are you lost, little girl?”
His words send a tremble through me, tightening my nipples. “I was just… I guess I did get a little lost and—”
“Nosing around where you shouldn’t be?” He gives a raise of one dark, intimidating brow. I shake my head. “I-I was… investigating.”
“Well, around here do you know what we call investigating?” he asks, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine.
“No.”
He says, “A cause for a disappearance.”
My blood runs cold, a white heat flashes over my face. “M-murder?”
“Maybe.” As he studies my face, a slow calculating grin crosses his face. “Of course, in this mafia, we are gentlemen. We hate to lay a finger on a lady.”
I say, “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
“What have you heard?” Jet demands.
If I’ve risked my life, I may as well try to garner some information from him. I egg him on, hoping for dirt. “That you punish your women… physically. That you inflict pain to keep them in line. To make them submit to your will.”
“Then you’ve heard wrong.” He gives