Pike (The Pawn Duet #1) - T.M. Frazier Page 0,17

the showroom. The walls hang with instruments barely played, the shelves are lined with lamps and trinkets either sold or forgotten, and the glass cases are filled with jewelry pawned for a quick buck that I’ll resell for several quick bucks. It’s a treasure trove of other people’s shit, and I love every inch of it because it doesn’t matter who it all belonged to before because, at least for the time being, it’s all mine. “I just gotta move all the shit from the case into the safe first.”

Nine flips the channel on the TV. “No rush. I ain’t got shit to do.”

I unlock the cases one by one and empty the contents into a bag. I’m opening the last case when the bell rings. Nine looks to me and raises his eyebrows because it’s not the bells over the front door that indicate a customer, especially since I’ve already locked that door, but the other bell. The one hidden behind a brick at the back door used only by the people I conduct my other business with. “You expecting someone?” he asks.

“No.” I toss the bag on the counter. I check the security cameras on the screen behind the register and can only make out a shadowy figure waiting by the door. A baseball cap covering his face. It’s not unusual. Anyone coming to the back door of my shop isn’t someone that wants to go about their business being easily recognized. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Nine.

“I’ll be right here,” Nine says, propping his feet back up on my counter.

Making my way through my office and the storage room, I reach the door and begin to unlock the intricate series of deadbolts and chains. “Who is it?” I ask, waiting for the answer before I remove the last lock.

“Jimmy sent me.”

There is no Jimmy, of course, but it’s a code only reserved for my backdoor customers. It changes every week, and this week it’s Jimmy. Last week, it was Jamal.

I finish with the last lock and turn the handle. The door is only open about an inch when it’s kicked in, smashing me in the face. I see stars as the room fills with familiar hooded men with skeleton bandanas tied around the lower half of their faces.

Same fucking shotguns aimed and ready.

I reach for my gun when one such shotgun is shoved in my face.

“Hands up, motherfucker,” a male voice warns.

I slowly raise my hands as two of the hooded figures come back in from the showroom, but they aren’t alone, they’re pushing Nine in front of them with the barrel of their guns.

“Looks like we’ve got company,” Nine says dryly. I smile because Nine and I have been through so much shit in our lives that very few things can make us feel angrier or more fearful than almost every day of our childhoods. I mean, these fuckers are going to die, but the way they’re so dramatic about the entire ordeal is laughable.

Also, I may be a little drunk.

“Seems you’re right, brother,” I reply.

Nine looks around. “Those skeleton bandanas are tacky as fuck. Do you wash them? Or are you guys just getting high on the smell of you own funk? Because I can’t imagine another reason why ya’ll would be this fucking stupid.”

“Shut the fuck up. Both of you. Shut the fuck up!” one of the men yells.

“Pike,” Nine says with a schoolgirl giggle. “I think he wants us to shut the fuck up.” He’s met with the handle of a shotgun to his head. Nine drops to the ground on his ass but remains conscious, rubbing his now bleeding temple and wincing. “So fucking serious,” he mutters.

“I found it,” a voice says, coming from the smallest man of the group. He’s holding up the painting I’m supposed to deliver to Jordan in the morning. But it’s not just any painting; the lining in the back is concealing… The man who hit Nine rips the lining down, exposing rows of plastic bags containing a huge amount of blow taped to the back.

Fuck!

Now they’ve hit a nerve and earned themselves hours of torture. To hit me once and jack my shit makes them naive, to do it twice makes them stupid as fuck, and now, it’s personal. I’m making a mental list of the tools I will use on each and every one of the motherfuckers. To make them hurt. To make them scream.

The little guy opens a drawstring backpack while another man