Chapter 49: Stash Grab (Caleb POV)
Chapter 49: Stash Grab (Caleb POV)
I’m crouched low in the dark hall of Ryan’s building, Tuesday night deep now, my heart banging loud in my chest. The collector’s car sits outside—headlights off, parked still—and my stomach’s tight, knowing they’re watching, waiting for us to slip up. Rain’s stopped, air cold and damp, and my boots press quiet on the creaky stairs, Ryan close behind, cap low, breathing shaky. My hands grip my jacket, $5,600 safe inside, and my throat’s dry, needing that $2,000 stash, needing it bad with Torres’s deadline ticking down to morning. We hit his floor—hall dim, walls stained—and I nod, slow, whispering, “Back way—quiet,” pushing us on.
We slip around—side door, rusted hinge creaking soft—and my chest’s tight, easing it open, stepping into the apartment. The air hits me—stale, thick with fear, whiskey still sour from before—and my eyes adjust, dark swallowing us, curtains shut tight. My boots crunch soft—cans rolling, glass glinting—and I freeze, listening hard, hearing nothing but Ryan’s breath, fast and rough behind me. “Where?” I whisper, loud, turning quick, hands shaky, needing it now. He points, slow, “Couch—floorboard,” voice hoarse, stepping past me, shaky but sure.
I follow, fast, knees hitting the floor hard, wood cold under my palms. The apartment’s a wreck—chair busted, bottles scattered—and my stomach twists, feeling the collector close, maybe hearing us. My hands shake, prying at the board—nails biting skin, splinters sticking—and it lifts, slow, creaking loud in the quiet. Ryan kneels beside me, cap off now, eyes wide, and my chest jumps, seeing it—tape peeling, a fat wad of bills stuffed tight. “There,” he whispers, rough, reaching in, pulling it free, dust puffing out, old and dry.
My hands grab it, fast, fingers shaking bad, peeling tape off, counting quick—crumpled twenties, fifties, hundreds, smelling musty from hiding. “Two grand?” I say, loud, voice cracking, holding it close, feeling the weight. He nods, slow, “Yeah—saved it, emergencies,” voice jittery, eyes darting to the window, curtains still. My chest lifts, hot and sharp, adding it up—$5,600 plus $2,000, $7,500 now—and my throat’s tight, hope kicking in, “Seven-five—we’re close, man.” My hands shake, stuffing it in my jacket, cash crinkling loud, needing just $2,500 more.
Ryan shifts, slow, floor creaking under him, and his whisper’s hoarse, “Too close—collectors know I’m here.” My stomach drops, cold washing fast, and my head snaps up, listening hard, hearing wind outside, soft through cracked glass. “We’re quick,” I say, sharp, voice low, zipping my jacket, cash safe inside, “In and out—they won’t see.” My hands clench, restless, and my chest’s pounding, feeling the risk, feeling Torres’s growl—ten grand or worse—pushing me to move.
I stand, slow, helping Ryan up, his hand cold in mine, shaky still. The apartment’s dark—shadows deep, couch sagging—and my boots squeak, stepping soft, heading for the door. My throat’s dry, and I glance back, checking the stash spot—board loose, empty now—and my stomach’s tight, needing to get clear, needing this to hold. Ryan follows, close, cap back on, and my chest’s tense, counting in my head—$7,500, so close, hours left to scrape the rest before dawn.
The hall’s quiet—air stale, lights off—and my hands shake, easing the door open, peeking out, seeing nothing but dark stairs. “Clear,” I whisper, loud, stepping through, pulling Ryan with me, boots soft on wood. My heart’s racing, fast and loud, and my jacket’s heavy, cash pressing my chest, hope thin but burning. We move quick—stairs groaning soft, shadows stretching long—and my stomach twists, feeling eyes, maybe, outside, waiting to pounce.
Then footsteps hit—faint, slow, echoing up the hall—and my chest stops, breath caught, freezing mid-step. Ryan grabs my arm, hard, whisper rough, “Someone’s coming—hear it?” My throat’s tight, and I nod, slow, straining to listen—boots scuffing, steady, closer now. My hands shake, cash crinkling soft, and my head spins, needing out, needing that $7,500 safe. “Back,” I whisper, sharp, pulling him into the apartment, shutting the door quiet, heart banging loud, waiting in the dark.
We crouch—low, by the couch, air thick with dust—and my stomach’s churning, hearing the steps stop, right outside. My hands grip my jacket, cash heavy, and my chest’s tight, counting fast—$7,500, so close, so far—and Ryan’s jittery, breathing fast, eyes wide in the dark. My throat’s dry, and I whisper, “Stay down—they’ll pass,” voice shaky, hoping it’s true, hoping we’re safe. The apartment’s still—curtains shut, floor cold—and my hands shake, holding the cash, feeling the clock, Torres’s deadline looming big.
Then the doorknob rattles—slow, sharp, metal clicking loud—and my chest freezes, cold washing over, hands stopping dead. Ryan’s grip tightens, whisper gone, and my stomach drops, hearing it again—someone picking the lock, steady, cutting our count short. My throat closes, breath stuck, and I stare at the door—wood scratched, knob turning—and we freeze, cash in my hands, caught in the dark, waiting for it to bust open.