1
Knuckles
I fucking hate packing.
I smoothed my black t-shirt out on my comforter before I reached for a pair of socks. I rolled them down, tightening them into a cylinder shape before laying them horizontally across the front of the shirt. I reached for a pair of jeans and spread them out, making sure there were no wrinkles as I smoothed it out beside my shirt and socks. And after plucking a pair of boxer briefs from my pile of clothes, I folded them up and placed them on top of the socks.
Then, I wrapped up everything into a tight cylinder before sliding it up the left pant leg of my jeans.
I can live out of one outfit, right?
After folding the jeans over and wrapping them around the articles of clothing I stuffed up the pant leg, all I had left in my hand was an oddly shaped object that wasn’t any bigger than both of my palms. I set the outfit down at the bottom of my backpack before I reached for another set of clothes, folding them up in a tight wad just like I had the first one. I did it again, and again, and then one last time.
Then, on top of the five outfits I had packed, I was able to fit my toiletry bag.
“Fucking recon,” I murmured to myself.
I wanted to be back at the bars. Tallying earnings, paying out payroll, and wiping down tables. I enjoyed the monotony of it all. The routine. It calmed my racing mind and helped me to sleep at night. All my life, I had relied heavily on routine. On schedules and time clocks to keep me focused and organized. I hated being ripped away from my foundation. I didn’t like stepping outside of those bars I had been charged to run early on in my tenure with this crew.
Now, I had to go do some bullshit recon road trip? By myself?
Fuck this.
I zipped my bag closed and hoisted it onto my back. I cracked my neck as I jumped around, feeling the excess space still jostling things a bit too much. I needed that backpack to be one big lump on my back. No shifting of weight needed to occur, not on a ride like this. Because if I was made and had to get away? Shifting weight was sometimes the only difference between getting away and getting caught in a ditch while being surrounded.
Ask me how I knew.
I slid my backpack off and started for my kitchen. I tore open the pantry and stuffed things like snacks and bottles of water into my pack. The more I could take with me, the less I had to stop and eat. Which meant more time to recon and less time filling my stomach. Which was massive, by the way. Not physically, but damn it, even I knew I could put away too much food at once.
Still, once all of this food was gone, my shifting weight issue wouldn’t be solved.
“Whatever. You live and you learn,” I murmured.
After nearly escaping with my life, I was about to be thrown back into the mire. Into the thick of it. Into the darkness that was the Golden Jags and this bullshit sex trafficking ring they were determined to run out of our city. They had another thing coming, though. This was our town. Our part of the country. And if that jerk-off thought for one second that he could come in and use our resources while trafficking our women in our hometown, he had another thing coming.
In the form of a rocket aimed at his head, if that was what it took.
All of the research Bowser and Link had done on this dredged up information that made me sick to my stomach. Not only had the Golden Jags sold off that motel space they were in, they had picked up a property just on the outskirts of town. Just inside city limits, as if to throw his middle finger in each of our faces. We all knew damn good and well that was where he’d try striking up his activities again. Especially after almost being busted at the park.
It took us damn near two months to stay low. But now that we were sure he was set up in that warehouse, it was time to do recon.
Enter, my dumb ass trip.
At this point, though, we weren’t trying to bring him in. We weren’t looking for answers to questions or anything like that. At this