Tastes Like Candy

Thirty-One

Thirty-One

Michelle

A clear night. So many of them were in this part of the world. A net of stars and a waxing moon, corrugated steel shining. A hulking pole barn, trucks parked along its flank, light spilling from the windows.

"What I wouldn't give for one cloud," Fox muttered. He touched her shoulder and she twisted to look at him.

Her uncle was nothing but a face – that's all any of them were, in their all-black, watch caps pulled low over their foreheads, knives, guns, Tasers, lock pick kits, and assorted other goodies stowed in various pockets.

"You," Fox said, giving her the most serious look she'd ever seen on him, "are going to stick to the plan. Do you understand me? No improvising, young lady. If something happens to you, I'll be a throw rug under Candy's favorite chair. And that's after Phil does the skinning."

Tommy chuckled.

"You get in and you get out," Fox continued. "And if shit goes south, you abandon the plan. Got it?"

She nodded and watched her quick exhalation puff to mist in the air. "Got it."

"Alright. Move."

They'd gone over this at least ten times back at the clubhouse, and so she had a sort of prescribed muscle memory, as they dropped down over the chain link fence and slithered through the overgrown reeds toward the barn. The air smelled like cooking meat, heavily spiced, delicious enough to tease at her tongue and make her mouth water. Other scents: tobacco smoke, pot smoke, unwashed bodies, gasoline, fire.

Albie had taught her how to be a spy: "Every single thing about your environment is important. Every scent, every sight, every sound. Everything gives you information. Everything is a resource, if you know how to use it."

Thank you, Uncle, she thought, and then she and Tommy hit the rear of the barn and flattened their backs against the steel siding.

She could hear voices, but the metal distorted and threw sound, so it was hard to pinpoint their locations. She knew, from the barbecue tang in the air, that someone was cooking out, and the chatter and laughter were most likely outdoors, around the grill.

"Miles?" Tommy asked.

Static crackled in her earpiece. Then Miles's voice. "I count at least six on the other side of the barn. Fire in the grill. They're drinking, I can see the bottles. No movement going into or out of the barn."

Tommy said, "Copy," and peeled away from the wall. Michelle followed, and they flitted through the open rear doors quick as shadows.

The barn was currently being used as a distribution center. A small one. The main warehouse had to be somewhere farther south, closer to the border, but after Ghost Teague established ties with the Chupacabras, they'd set up shop here in Amarillo. From Texas, they distributed cocaine east and west, most of it to California, where that chapter of the Dogs was handling end-user sales.

God, it was a mess, this whole business.

By the dim light of a few bare bulbs dangling from the rafters, she could make out wooden crates stamped with sets of numbers. A tractor. Fuel cans. A forklift. To the left was the office, built with plywood walls, and above it a loft.

She and Tommy flipped up their collars, hiding their faces, and crept across the straw floor on tiptoe, not breathing. Tommy reached the door to the office first and turned the knob soundlessly, opened it a crack and peered inside. When he found it clear, he slipped in, waved her in behind him. Shut the door and pressed the thumb lock.