Page 79 of Trigger Happy

There’s no movement.

No birds scattering either, as if someone already scared them away, but I’m already over an hour into this little adventure, so I turn back to the hatch. “Yeah, we’re opening you.”

I pull. God, that’s heavy. Thank you, pull-ups. It’s locked, obviously, so I grab the lockpick from my pocket, grateful I spent the extra fifteen minutes packing a backpack with the essentials. Thankfully, I haven’t needed the hand grenade yet.

My lockpick isn’t CIA-level, but the hatch doesn’t look too sophisticated. Just a simple compression latch. It takes a few minutes of maneuvering, but eventually I hear the click.

I lift the door a sliver, just enough to peer into a deep, dark hole. I can’t see anything, so I pull out my phone flashlight. The drop doesn’t look too far. I bet I could jump down. In fact, it looks to be about my height and there’s a rung at the top of the hatch I can use to pull myself back up.

“See, Lawton?” I say to myself. “This is why I work out.”

Cold, pungent air blows up at me, so it’s air-conditioned, and the first thing that hits me is the smell. My dad used to call me his little bloodhound growing up because of my strong sense of smell, so I instantly recognize the burning scent.

Bleach.

I stare into the hole, contemplating. I should probably wait for Lawton or at least call for backup, but after what he said, I don’t want to need him for anything. I’ve been working alone for years, so I can manage. Decision made, I carefully slide inside, trying to reach the bottom, but my feet dangle. It should only be a few more feet to the bottom, so I brace myself for a jump.

“Here we go.” I let go of my grip and drop down.

My feet hit the floor, but it’s wet. I slip, landing right on my bad shoulder. The one I’ve dislocated three times already.

There’s a loud, sick pop.

“Ow—oh, fuck, that hurts!” I hiss, clutching my arm.

It feels like someone jammed a rusty knife in the joint and left it there. I try to move it, but white-hot agony shoots through me, and I nearly black out. Actually, maybe I do because it’s gone dark in here. I roll to my side, and bleach seeps into my clothes.

“Yeah, that’s a dislocated shoulder,” I pant in shaky breaths, rolling sideways. Partially dislocated from what I can tell.

“Just what I need,” I say, trying to push myself up with my useless arm, but another jagged bolt of misery rips through me.

Lawton’s going to give me so much shit.

I push the pain to the furthest corner of my mind like my mom taught me and stand up slowly, careful not to slip on the bleached floor again.

Focus, that’s all I need to do.

The room is pitch-black now, which means the hatch door must’ve shut when I jumped.

“Well, shit,” I say, straightening up.

The top of my head brushes something cold. There’s a pull-cord overhead. I give it a tug with my good arm. The lonesome light bulb flickers to life, casting a faint yellow glow over the room.

That’s when I see them on the walls.

Wigs.

So many wigs.

There are rows of blank mannequin heads staring back at me. Brunette, blond, redhead. I feel the soft strands. Human hair, too.

“Well, well, well…” I tsk. “Not just a horseback-riding, candle-making nepo baby, are we?”

I take a few photos so I can upload them to Onyx, because this is too good. I knew she was hiding something. No one’s that nice to strangers.

Once I’m done, I notice a ladder in the corner. “That would’ve been helpful.”

Breathing through the agony, I drag it over beneath the hatch door and carefully climb back up, but when I try to push open the door, it remains shut.