Chapter 8 - The Hunt in the Dark
Mave stood in the pitch-black warehouse, listening to Gallagher's ragged breathing.
She was a waitress, not a soldier.
But years of closing shifts and navigating cluttered stockrooms with broken lightbulbs had taught her how to move in the dark.
Heavy footsteps kicked in the door they had just secured.
Flashlight beams sliced through the thick, dusty air of the loading dock.
"Find them," a voice ordered in Spanish.
Mave crept away from Gallagher, moving silently toward a stack of industrial shelving.
She found a large, rusted barrel marked with a faded chemical warning label.
Using all her strength, she tipped the barrel on its side and silently rolled it across the concrete walkway.
Thick, slippery solvent began to pool rapidly across the floor.
Two cartel men walked carefully down the aisle, their flashlights sweeping the corners.
The lead man stepped directly into the chemical puddle.
His feet flew out from under him, and he crashed hard onto his back, his rifle clattering away.
Before the second man could react, Mave pushed a heavy stack of wooden pallets off a high shelf.
The wood crashed down directly onto the fallen man, pinning him to the floor.
The second hitman panicked and fired blindly into the shadows.
Mave ducked behind a thick concrete support pillar, holding her breath as bullets chipped away the stone inches from her face.
The gunfire suddenly ceased.
The overhead fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed violently to life, flooding the warehouse with blinding light.
Mave squinted and looked down the central aisle.
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Ponytail was standing by the main breaker switch, smiling his nasty smile.
He had one hand wrapped tightly around Brutus's collar, and his other hand was pressing a serrated hunting knife directly against the dog's throat.
