Chapter 6 Armed and Dangerous
I woke up with a start, my alarm blaring like a banshee. Bright, everyday sunlight, streaming through the blinds, flooded the room. For one blessed second, everything felt normal.
Then my skull reminded me it hated me.
I dragged myself to the bathroom. The mirror was spotless. My neck was clean; no blood, no glow, no creepy steam writing. Only pale skin and the familiar wolf tattoo glaring back at me.
Sure. Because hallucinations totally leave physical evidence and then tidy up after themselves.
I splashed cold water on my face until my teeth stopped chattering.
The coffee I brewed tasted like battery acid, but I drank it anyway while doing the one thing I was truly good at: digging. I skipped the usual thief boards. Whatever that torc was, it wasn’t typical black-market bait.
I delved deeper: private collector forums, academic papers behind paywalls, scanned scraps of old books that nobody has opened since the invention of electricity.
Four hours and a caffeine overdose later, I had exactly one hit that made my stomach drop.
A grainy photo of a silver torc (exact match) in some rich asshole’s private collection catalog. Caption just said:
Property of M. Whitaker. Not for sale. Ever.
M. Whitaker. The M probably stood for “Motherfucker” as far as I was concerned.
That was it. No background or history, just a glaring red flag warning me to stay the hell away. I ignored it. Because rent was due, because the buyer was already sending “friendly” reminders, and because apparently I have a death wish wearing steel-toed boots.
I spent the rest of the day turning myself into a weapon.
Cleaned my lock picks. Oiled the hinges on my favorite straight razor until it whispered open.
Packed light: black jeans, black tank, hair in a tighter braid than usual. Loaded the Glock, I swear I never carry. Checked the magazine twice.
By the time the sun bled out and the moon started creeping up again, I was standing in front of the mirror giving myself the same pep talk I give every job:
Get in.
Get the thing.
Get out.
Don’t die.
Simple.
Except my reflection looked like she already knew the plan was bullshit. I flipped the mirror the bird, grabbed my keys, and headed for the door.
Tonight I was getting that torc off his neck.
One way or another.
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The ride back to Harlan County felt colder this time. The air bit into my exposed skin. Every shadow along the edge of the road looked like a wolf. Every gust of wind sounded like a growl.
When I parked the Ducati a mile from the church, the moon hung higher, swollen and white, casting long, skeletal fingers through the trees.
My pulse was already doing its best impression of a trapped hummingbird. I popped a clove, the smoke a flimsy shield against the dread clawing at me. There were no cars outside. No crowd. Just the dead, silent silhouette of the megachurch against the bruised-purple sky.
Perfect.
Same fence. Same hole. Let them think I’m predictable. It works every time. Expect the unexpected, as they say.
Inside, the air was still heavy with last night’s violence. The metal tang of blood was fainter but still there, clinging to the concrete. I looked at the elevator shaft, and a shiver ran through me.
Not taking that again, though.
I’d studied the blueprints I’d managed to pull from a public utility server before I came. There was another way in: a maintenance access tunnel used during the mine’s operational days. It’s probably sealed off now, but nothing I couldn't handle.
I found the access panel hidden behind a pile of rusted equipment, pried it open with my crowbar, and squeezed through.
The tunnel was a tight squeeze. Dust and the smell of damp earth filled my lungs. It was a claustrophobic's nightmare, but I'd been in tighter spaces.
I made my way forward, my boots crunching on gravel.
That’s when I heard it.