Page 17 of Property of Bones

Tank shoulders the door open.

It creaks, loud and long, echoing into the dark like a warning we’re here.

Good.

Let him hear us coming.

Inside, the shadows press in like a second skin. I switch on the flashlight mounted to my Glock, sweeping corners. Rats scurry. Dust dances in the beam. A low thrum of music seeps from the back office. Dumbass didn’t even turn it down.

“He’s here,” I mutter.

We move down the corridor, boots crunching over broken glass and old bullet casings. My heart’s steady. My rage isn’t. I don’t want Billy to be involved. But Ineedhim to be. Because if he isn’t, we’re chasing a ghost. And ghosts don’t bleed.

Spike throws the office door open so hard it smacks the wall.

Billy jerks upright from a stained couch, eyes wide, mouth full of Cheetos. For half a second, he looks twelve again. Skinny, redheaded, and too many teeth for his face. Then I see the glint of metal on the table beside him.

Gun.

He goes for it.

Bad move.

I’m across the room before he can even get his fingers around the grip. I slam him into the wall, knock the breath out of him with a knee to the gut, and twist his arm until he yelps like a kicked dog.

“Try me again, Billy-boy,” I growl, shoving him down into the chair. “I fucking dare you.”

Spike storms in, eyes blazing. “What thefuckare you doing back in town?”

Billy coughs. “Damn, Spike! I thought you were coming alone.”

“You thought wrong,” Spike snarls. “Start talking. Right now. You’ve got one chance to convince me not to put a bullet in your fucking skull.”

Billy’s eyes flick between us, panic clawing its way up his throat. “I didn’t know it wasthatbad, man. I swear! I thought I was just moving pills, same old stuff. I didn’t know it was cut with that poison.”

“Bullshit,” Tank snaps.

“I’m telling the truth!” Billy holds up shaking hands. “I swear, I didn’t know until last week. Someone higher up sent the new batch through. Said it’d move faster. That people wouldn’t notice.”

“Who?” Spike bites out. “Give me a name.”

Billy hesitates.

Big mistake.

Spike lunges and grabs him by the collar, slamming him back against the wall so hard the drywall cracks. “Give me a name!”

Billy’s shaking now, Cheeto dust still clinging to his lips. “Muerte! His name’s Muerte, alright? He’s outta Mexicali. Runs through Eastgate sometimes when his normal route gets hot.”

My blood turns cold. Muerte’s name has come up before but only in whispers. He runs the biggest fucking cartel out of Mexico. And if he’s running fentanyl now?

Shit just hit a whole new level of fucked.

“This is your last chance, Billy,” Spike says, tossing the idiot to the floor. “I want you out of Palm Springs and I don’t wanna see you back here again.”

“But…we’re family,” he whines, rubbing his jaw.

“I said what I said.”

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