Page 57

Every step was careful—didn’t want to knock over a pile and announce myself.
The TV’s glow flickered ahead, a cartoon laugh trackcutting through the quiet, tinny and wrong in a place like this.
I found him in the living room, kicked back in a grimy recliner, sucking on a glass pipe, eyes dancing under a mop of greasy hair.
Skinny, unshaven, wearing a stained wifebeater and jeans that looked like they’d been on for weeks.
A pistol sat on the table next to him—cheap 9mm, no holster, tossed there like trash.
I swiped it before he noticed, tucked it in my waistband, and kicked the recliner over—hard.
It crashed to the floor, him spilling out, pipe clattering, but he didn’t react like a sane person—didn’t scramble, didn’t fight.
Just lay there, high as fuck, grinning up at me like I was delivering pizza.
“It’s you!” he said, bright, almost cheerful, voice slurred around the edges.
I froze, gun steady on him, finger light on the trigger guard. “What?”
“You’re the guy who’s supposed to pay me the rest of the five K,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded, like we were buddies catching up. “That’s what they said.”
My blood went cold, but I kept my face blank, calculating. “Who’s they?”
He didn’t hear me—or didn’t care—babbling on, words tripping over themselves. “Only got a grand upfront, man. Shoulda asked for more, y’know? Killin’ a fuckin’ pastor ain’t cheap. Fuckin’ preacher, all high and mighty, thinkin’ he’s untouchable?—”
I stepped closer, extended my gun hand, pointed straight at his face, Holstein’s eyes catching the TV’s glow—SpongeBob laughing like nothing was wrong.
That got his attention, finally—eyes widening, handsshooting up from where he sprawled on his back, pipe rolling away in the filth.
“Whoa, whoa, man, I’m just doin’ what they said, like on the paper!”
He pointed at the TV stand, a cluttered mess of ashtrays, empty bottles, and pizza boxes, and I saw it—a folded sheet of thick paper, sticking out like it didn’t belong.
Kept my gun on him, stepped over, and picked it up, unfolding it slow, careful.
Top half—a grainy photo of Jamie Calhoun, Hallie Mae’s dad, smiling in a suit, his name and the church address typed neat below in cold, black font.
Bottom half—my face, a candid shot, probably pulled from some security feed, grainy but unmistakable, with words printed underneath: “The guy who will pay you.”
My stomach dropped, ice spreading through my veins like poison.
I pocketed the paper, turned back to Holstein, voice low, cold as the barrel in my hand. “Who gave you this?”
He blinked, like the question was a math problem he couldn’t solve, then grinned again, lopsided. “The guy, man. You’re the guy.”
I crept closer, slow, deliberate, the pistol steady, its weight familiar, grounding. “Who. Gave. You. The. Paper?”
Holstein squinted, brain sluggish under the haze, then mumbled, “Somethin’ ‘bout 77, like a department store or some shit.”
My blood froze solid, a chill that started in my gut and clawed up my spine.
Department 77.
The shadow outfit that’d been dogging us, twisting our lives into knots, always one step ahead, always out of reach.
This wasn’t just a hit—it was a setup, and I was the fucking bait, my face tied to their game, my name dragged through their blood.
My fault.