Page 65 of Tank
“We should’ve closed hours ago. Why the fuck are you keeping us open so late?”
“Because you left me alone and people kept showing up and I was having a good time. I was… on a roll.”
“Well, you didn’t burn the place down. That’s already ahead of expectations.” I try to keep my voice gruff, but warmth sneaks in.
He laughs, a quick bright sound. “Even washed the trays.”
Pride sneaks up on me, unexpected and warm. “Good work,” I say.
He stares at me like I just handed him a fucking medal, disbelief and a cautious happiness in his eyes. "You know," he says, shaking his head like he can't quite fathom it, "a guy could get used to compliments around here."
I let the thought sit a moment before nodding toward the back. “I’m gonna go change,” I say, pulling off my overshirt, ready to get down to business.
Ricky raises an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because your time being responsible is over. We’ve got work to do.”
He squints, scratching the stubble on his cheek as if it'll help make sense of my words. “The hell does that mean?”
I give him a smirk, the kind that used to drive the guys in my old unit nuts. They’d always try to guess what impossible scheme I’d cooked up next. They were always wrong. I let the moment hang, knowing it’ll drive Ricky crazy. Then I drop the bomb. “It means we’re gonna blow up Butter & Bliss.”
Ricky stares. “Wait, what? Is the bakery game really that fucking ruthless? I’m trying to turn over a new leaf here, Tank. For Vanessa.”
I laugh. “Trust me. We do this right, and we make life better for everyone in Boise.”
He tilts his head. “I can’t imagine how reducing the city’s access to sweets does that, but... sure, whatever you say.”
I jerk a thumb toward the back room.
“Shut the hell up and come with me so I can show you how to build a bomb.”
“You can do that?”
I shake my head, sighing. “What the hell are they teaching kids in school these days?”
We head into the back, and I open a locked supply cabinet most people assume is full of flour. Inside there is homemade napalm gel, timers, copper wire, plastic jugs, and butane cartridges.
Ricky whistles low. “Jesus. This the flour you use in the croissants?”
We get to work. It’s quiet. Focused.
And by the time we’re done, we’ve got two small incendiary devices that will torch a kitchen but leave the surrounding buildings intact.
We roll out to the parking lot, get in my car, windows down, no music, tension coiled tight. We drive.
We pull up behind Butter & Bliss, climb the back fence, and plant the charges near their external propane tanks and wiring system.
We’re back in the car, down the road, when the first blast lights up the night.
The second one follows, a heartbeat later.
We don’t stop driving.
Ricky glances over. “So... what exactly did we just accomplish?”
I grin, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“In the morning, Bianca’s gonna call. Her dessert caterer just became a smoking pile of butter and glass.”
