Page 2 of Property of Brute & Axl
Dismantling my rifle, I’m quick to exit the building the same way I entered, ensuring no evidence is left behind. I don’t know the guy’s identity, nor do I care. My ability to care died the night that girl did. She took my humanity with her, and I’m better for it.
Axl watches for me in the building’s lobby, waiting until I leave out a side door before he walks through the front. After storing my weapon in the trunk of the blacked-out Bronco, I slide behind the wheel, drive around the block, and pick up Axl as he lingers at a hot dog stand on the street corner.
“Clear?” he asks, his voice still rough from the near hanging he endured last month. He couldn’t speak for about two weeks before his voice slowly returned. The trachea bruising was significant and something that pissed him off because he talks a lot of shit.
“Yup. Perfect day for a meatball sub.”
Axl snorts and hands me one of the hot dogs before turning on the radio.
“You heard it here, folks. If you or anyone you know is missing a loved one with brown hair and hazel eyes, who is in her early twenties and pregnant, please take a look at the studio’s website for more information and a picture of the woman with no memory. Quite a remarkable story of survival.” The radio host's empathetic voice is something I haven’t been familiar with in nearly a decade.
“Damn,” Axl mutters.
He managed to hold onto his humanity. Don’t know if it’s lucky or not, but at least he feels things. I’m just a dark void of nothingness.
“Sucks,” I agree. And it does. For the girl. Not sure what happened, but it doesn’t sound good.
“Stop and see Easton?” Axl asks as we exit onto Highway 98 from Destin, Florida.
Easton Kincaid served with us until he decided to retire about a year before our discharge. We were good friends, raised in similar backgrounds, with an understanding of the kind of life we would inevitably live.
Easton comes from organized crime, I come from a 1% club that follows its own rules, and Axl is the son of a dead serial killer from New York. We’re all cut from the same cloth and woven into men who are intolerant of the world around them.
“Yeah, give him a call, see what he’s up to these days.” It’ll be good to touch base with an old friend. Take a break from this trip before heading home and back into the thick of it.
The drive is mostly done in silence, with the radio as background noise. There’s a lot of talk about this discovered woman, but few details, and her story piques my curiosity.
“You think it was her lover?” I glance at Axl as we merge into the Pensacola traffic, heading towards the Bay Bridge.
“Isn’t it always?” He laughs while searching up the website to get a look at the woman. “Damn. Image isn’t loading. They say she was found out by Bay Springs, half dead on the side of the road, and missed by dozens of drivers. Only reason she was found is someone had to take a piss.”
“She be dead otherwise?” I ask, my interest increasing.
“Holy fuck,” he grunts. “She was shot in the head. So, yeah, I’d say she’d be dead.”
“Who the fuck shoots a pregnant woman in the head?” Even I’m not that cold. Sure, killing people for money is my thing, but children are off limits.
“A lover.” My friend reiterates his previous statement about it being the father. Truthfully, he’s probably not wrong.
After a few more minutes of radio ads, Axl’s phone buzzes in the cupholder, and Easton’s name pops up on the screen. “Damn,” he says. “Easton’s out of town on business.” Too bad. “Next time.” Because we both know there’s always a next time in our line of work.
“Let Viking know our ETA.” Now that I’m driving straight through, we should only be a few more hours.
We ride in silence for a while before Axl speaks up, “You ever think about her?”
Her.
All the fucking time.
Finleigh Collins.
The sweetest and most satisfying piece of ass we’ve ever shared. “Yeah, I think about her.” We’d been on a job in Jackson when we ran into the woman in a dive bar, looking to celebrate her achievement.
We spent a weekend losing ourselves in her body. Her perfectly round hips, big, juicy ass, and pert tits still make my mouth water. The woman discovered a seductive side she never believed existed. When we woke up that last morning, she was gone, with a note left behind thanking us for an unforgettable weekend, but stating that was all she wanted.
Leaving her alone was torture, but a few bottles of rum made it easier.
“Yeah, Ax, I think of her.” More than I’d like to admit.