Page 135 of Dock

The abrupt end to his sentence is caused by a large, sudden explosion from the dye pack in his possession.

While he’s knocked completely backward onto his ass from the impact, his driver merely stumbles off to the side. Between the dense red color clouding the area that’s making it hard to see and the thick, fiery smell that’s making it hard to breathe – courtesy of some homemade pepper spray – his backup struggles to gain their bearings providing me with the planned upper hand.

In one, swift, crouched movement, I reach into the bag.

Throw another loaded pack of fake cash directly at his driver’s feet.

Force him further away.

Listen to him howl over the burning from the chemicals.

I toss two in the direction of the building where the others came from to deter their approach long enough to retrieve the weapon I had stored inside as well as the damp cloth to aid in my ability to get non-tainted air throughout my counterattack.

Due to his struggle to breathe, the mastermind of the exchange does his best to ignore the burning of his flesh to back out of the space; however, my firing a shot through his calf prevents him from making it far.

“Fuck!” echoing throughout the playground is followed by additional short yelps of pain in the unseen – likely from the two surprise guests meeting the end of a barrel or blade. I fire a second round into his kneecap on the other leg, not only stopping him from moving, but even considering it. “Fuckkkk!”

“You’re fun,” I mutedly mock behind the damp material that’s blocking my mouth and nose. “I’d torture you for longer if I didn’t have an innocent to save.” Rising to my feet allows his driver to fully make out my frame – something that would matter more if it weren’t for the two bullets I put through the center of his forehead. Afterward, I stomp my boot covered foot forcibly onto the area I just damaged, grinning to myself over the crunch sound that’s heard. “Just applying a bit of pressure to help stop the bleeding.” Aiming the Glock at his face occurs next. “Tell me where she is.”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t pretend like he might.

Instead, he begins to laugh.

Obnoxiously.

Hysterically.

“You accidentally mix in laughing gas with the shit?” Bones asks Flames during their transition to my side.

“You ever seen that shit added to an explosion?!” Excitement is easy to hear in spite of his mouth being covered by a damp rag too. “Ka-Boom!”

“That’s a no then?” Bones follows up.

“Oh, yeah no.” My stare remains trained on the chortling individual. “That’s not N-2-0. That’s Heath Ledger Joker shit.”

An unsettling realization that he may be right, that this man may be a pure nutjob that doesn’t tell us the one thing we need to know has me practically growling, “Where. Is. She?”

“You’ll never fucking find her now,” he laugh wheezes.

“Tell me.”

“She’ll probably fucking bleed to death waiting for you,” escapes around shallow gulps of air.

“Tell me!”

“She’s got that…” coughs transform into cackles, “blood…thing…” And cackles transpose back into hacks. “Won’t take long.”

“What blood thing?!” Flames inquires, panic in his voice matching the type wreaking havoc inside of me. “What fucking blood thing?!”

“Tell him or he’ll kill you,” Bones bluntly reminds.

“He’s gonna kill me either way.”

“You’re right.” Pulling the trigger barely requires effort let alone thought and seeing his head bounce back onto the dark mulch becomes an easy segue to move shit along. “Call Dive.”

Flames retrieves his phone while asking, “What was he talkin’ about Dock?” Loading up a video call is executed. “What blood thing?”