Page 45 of Worshiping Faith

And the cell keys.

Jinx is going to talk to me.

The guard quarters are a mess of half-looted lockers and stale air, but I waste no time.

I grab the ring of keys from a desk drawer and start popping open lockers one by one, hoping my men haven’t had time to strip this place clean.

First locker? Nothing but an empty holster and a pack of smokes. Second? Some old boots and a moldy sandwich that makes my stomach turn.

The third and fourth give me spare guard uniforms, a few scattered bullets, and a well-worn nudie mag. No shock there.

Then, finally, bingo.

The fifth locker is exactly what I need.

Some poor bastard had been using it as his personal stash, and it’s loaded. Candy bars, trail mix, chips, even a couple of sodas. There’s always that guy at work, the one who treats his locker like a convenience store.

I rip a pillowcase off a pillow, shove everything inside, and sling a blanket over my shoulder for good measure.

It’s not much, but Jinx is crashing hard. This should help.

Armed with my stash, I step back into the dimly lit block.

Quince’s voice slithers out of the darkness before I even get close. “Well, well. Not fighting with the animals anymore?”

I keep walking.

“You not getting what you need from Dax?” His tone drips filth. “Let me out. I’ll fuck you till you can’t move.”

I stop. Slowly, I turn and meet his eyes through the bars. Then, I draw my gun and flick off the safety. “The last guard who tried that ended up with his brains on the ceiling,” I say evenly. “Wanna see for yourself?”

Quince’s grin falters just enough to satisfy me.

“Where’s Jinx?” I ask.

He exhales, his bravado cracking. “End of the block.”

I hold his gaze a second longer before lowering the gun.

Quince may be trash, but he’s not stupid. Maybe he sees it, the way I’m frayed at the edges. Dax, Zachs, Wilkes, and Trip are all out there, and this piece of shit is safe behind bars.

If Jinx doesn’t talk, maybe I’ll get answers out of Quince, Zachs style.

He mutters something else as I walk away, but I’m already tuning him out.

The further I go, the quieter it gets.

The air is heavy with the scent of old sweat and disinfectant, but there’s something else beneath it, the eerie stillness of a place meant for noise.

My footsteps echo against the concrete. Somewhere ahead, I hear shuffling.

“Jinx?”

A pause. Then, “Faith? Madam,” he says, voice rough.

I find him in the last cell, slouched on the metal cot with a thin blanket bunched at his side.

Dax did that. Sweet.

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