Justice for All (The Outcast Book #1) Page 6

  With that motivation I pull on the window with everything I have. It finally comes free with a squeal that sounds way too loud. Though I don’t want to, I pause beneath the window for a few moments to listen for the sound of someone coming to investigate the noise. When I don’t hear anything, I pull myself up through the window.

  I find myself in an old storeroom. It’s too dark to see a lot and I don’t want to give myself away with a flashlight, so I creep ahead with my arms out like a blind person. I hear more skittering around from rats or mice; hasn’t the owner of this place ever called an exterminator? I have to put both hands over my mouth as I feel something run right over my feet. I hurry as much as I can to find the door and then peek out into the hallway.

  There’s a light on at the end of the hallway. That must be Frankie Lutz’s office. I reach into the pocket of my hoodie for the gun I took from Tiny last night. As much as I’d like to be one of those comic book heroes who doesn’t use a gun, the gun will simplify things a hell of a lot, especially against someone who is a lot bigger than I am.

  Frankie Lutz is sitting at an old metal desk in a rundown office. There’s a ledger open in front of him, but his attention is on the portable TV on the corner of the desk. He’s watching a football game, probably one that he has money on. “Goddamnit!” he roars as one of the teams misses a field goal.

  His night gets a lot worse when I step into the office, the revolver aimed at his chest. “Hands,” I say. “Put them on the desk.”

  Frankie doesn’t waste any time obeying me. He rests his hands on the ledger, a pinkie ring glinting in the light from the lamp on his desk. “You want something, kid?”

  “I’m here to shut you down, Frankie.”

  “Yeah? You taking over now?”

  “I’m not interested in taking over. I just want to clean you out.”

  “You think you’re going to get away with it?”

  “Tiny Dashner said pretty much the same thing.”

  “You the one who held him up?” Frankie starts to laugh. “He said it was some big guy, like a weightlifter. You don’t look like no weightlifter I ever saw.”

  “Stop stalling and empty out the safe.” I motion to the safe in the corner with the barrel of the gun. “Put the money on the desk.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  He’s going along with this far too easily. He must think someone is going to come up here to bail him out. That or he doesn’t care what will happen to him when Madame Crimson finds out he lost hundreds of thousands of her dollars. “Aren’t you even going to threaten me?” I ask as he starts to pile the money on the desk.

  “No point to that. She is going to find you and when she does, she’s going to have you ripped limb-from-limb and fed to her dogs. That’s a promise.”

  “I’m not afraid of her.”

  “Then you’re the only one.”

  “It won’t be much longer until no one is scared of her—except maybe the other inmates.”

  Frankie laughs again. “That’s a good one, kid. You got spunk, as my grandma used to say. Too bad all it’s going to do is get you killed.”

  “We’ll see about that. Put the money in a bag. Then put your head down on the desk and count to a hundred.”

  “You serious?”

  I gesture at him with the gun. “What does it look like?”

  “Fine. Course if you want to commit suicide there are a lot easier ways. Just put that gun to your head and pull the trigger. Save yourself some time.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He finishes putting the money in the bag and then leans forward until his forehead touches the surface of the desk. I wait until he gets to ten before I snatch the bag away and walk out. I go back into the storeroom, not wanting to take a bag full of stolen cash through the bar. I drop the cash out the window; it bounces off the piles of trash to land on the ground.

  I crawl through the window, count to three, and then drop myself onto the trash. I can’t help screaming as I can feel the rats running around beneath me. I’m still yelping as I roll off the pile of trash, onto the ground. Before anyone can stop me, I grab the cash and run.

  ***

  I get in bed about two minutes before I hear the front door open. Jessica trudges up the stairs, making more than enough noise to wake me up if I had been sleeping. I’m facing away from the door, the blankets pulled over me, when she opens the door.

  I hear her sniffing and then she mutters, “God, it reeks in here.” The smell is probably from all that garbage I was swimming around in at the bar. I would have taken a shower, but I didn’t have time. I barely had time to drop the money off on the steps of St. Michael’s, the cathedral where Daddy’s funeral was held. I don’t know who will end up with the money or what they’ll do with it, but it has to be better than Madame Crimson’s organization having it.

  The smell must be repellent enough that Jessica closes the door and then starts down the hallway. That or she’s too tired after work and partying with Casey. Of course it’s all right for her to be out until three in the morning with her friends while I have to be home by five o’clock in the afternoon or I get a tongue-lashing.

  I wait a few minutes and then climb out of bed. I change out of my vigilante outfit, into a T-shirt and shorts. I really wish I could shower; I’ll have to change the sheets tomorrow and douse the whole room in Febreze.

  As tired as I am, it’s hard to sleep. My first two missions have gone so much smoother than I ever thought possible. I was always committed, but that didn’t stop me from imagining getting myself beaten to a pulp or raped—or both—by one of Madame Crimson’s goons. Maybe that will still happen, but for now I’ve dealt a couple of minor blows to her organization with only stinking up my clothes in the process.

  I stare up at the ceiling for a while, wondering if Daddy would be proud of me or not. Daddy was always a cop’s cop, the one who never took a bribe or beat a suspect or anything not above board. It’s why he was so determined to get Madame Crimson—and why it took so long. He probably wouldn’t like me going after her like this, like a vigilante. But what else am I supposed to do? Wait years until I can join the police and work my way up to where I can go after her?

  I have to do this now. I’ve already waited a year to get started; I don’t want another year to go by. I don’t want another year where she gets to eat caviar and drink champagne while ruining so many lives.

  “Sorry, Daddy,” I mumble. “It’s gotta be this way.”

  I eventually fall asleep, though only for a couple of hours. I get up and go right into the shower. I wash my hair twice and use the soap three times. I don’t usually wear perfume, but this seems like a good time for it. I use the bottle Daddy got me for my thirteenth birthday; it smells like a car air freshener, but that’s better than nothing.

  Downstairs I find Jessica nursing a cup of coffee. Her eyes are bloodshot with dark circles around them. Her hair is so frizzy and mussed that I doubt she has taken a shower. “Rough night?” I ask as chipper as I can.

  “Just a long night.”

  “You must be getting old.” I pour myself a cup of coffee and then sit down. “So, you want to talk about it or should I ask Casey?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. We went to a couple of clubs, got some drinks, and went home.”

  “You didn’t hook up with any boys?”

  “No, I didn’t ‘hook up’ with anyone.”

  “Come on, you can tell me. I’m not a kid anymore.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You should find a boyfriend. It’s been what, six months?”

  “Eight.”

  “That’s even worse.”

  “Maybe it’d be easier to find a boyfriend if I didn’t have to take care of a little hellion.”

  “Hellion? Me?”

  “What have you been doing in that room of yours? It smells like a sewage pipe.”

  “Probably because someone had me scrubbing toilets yesterday.”

/>   “Our toilets don’t smell that bad. You aren’t using, are you?”

  ‘“Using?’”

  “Drugs. God, Robin, you know what I’m talking about. Have you been taking any drugs?”

  “Nothing that isn’t prescribed.” I roll up the sleeves of my top so she can see my arms. “See, no track marks.”

  “That doesn’t mean you aren’t taking something orally. Or smoking something.”

  “So I smoke the occasional cigarette? Big whoop. It’s not like you never did it.”

  “That doesn’t mean I want you to do it.”

  “Oh, right, because I’m your precious little baby.” I snort at this. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”

  “But you’re still a kid. Whether you want to believe that or not.” Jessica sighs and then gulps down the rest of her coffee. “Look, Robin, I know what it’s like to be sixteen. I know what it’s like to feel no one understands you—”

  “Could we skip this whole little talk? I’m fine. I’m not on drugs. I’m not smoking—much. Maybe my grades are down a little, but it’s not a big deal.”

  Jessica stares at me for a moment and then finally sighs. “All right. We’ll table this for now. Still, I really think it would be good if you talked to someone.”

  “You mean like a therapist?”

  “It doesn’t have to be. It could be a teacher or Father O’Neil—”

  “Yeah, he really understands teenage girls.”

  Jessica can’t help smiling at this. “All right, maybe not Father O’Neil, but there has to be someone you can talk to if you don’t want to talk to me.”

  “God, how many times do I have to tell you that I’m fine? Just because I’m not all goody-goody anymore doesn’t mean I’m some massive screw-up either.” I gulp down the rest of my coffee and then get to my feet. “Let’s get to work already.”

  Chapter 9

  After another day of sweeping up coffee grounds and scrubbing toilets, Jessica takes me home for a dinner of microwaved lasagna in front of the TV. The pasta tastes like plastic and the sauce like ketchup, but since neither of us can cook it will have to do. As I eat, I hope Jessica will say she’s going out again tonight, but instead she yawns and then says, “I am wiped. How about you, kid?”

  “I’m fine. Must be all that coffee.”

  “You have a real future as a janitor,” she says.

  “It’s good to know I have options.”

  “I only want the best for you. You know that, right?”

  “You have a funny way of showing it.”

  She sighs and then shakes her head. “I hate having to be the heavy, but what choice is there?”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “I know you think you can, but you’re still a kid.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You are, Robin. Whether you want to admit it or not.” She reaches over to take my hand. “After Mom died, I promised Dad that if anything happened to him, I’d look after you. I’d make sure you grew up right. That’s all I’m trying to do. Sometimes that means having to be the bad guy. You understand?”

  “I get it. Can I be excused?”

  “Sure. I’ll be right here.” She sighs again and then closes her eyes. I wait until I hear her snoring quietly before I get up. It’s my turn to shake my head; she really shouldn’t have spent all night at the clubs.

  I go down to the basement, where I’ve stashed my hoodie and sweatpants. I practice on the bag for an hour to get myself ready for tonight. After two warm-ups, tonight I’m going after bigger game: Arleigh Carr, one of Madame Crimson’s lieutenants. From Daddy’s notes, Carr oversees Madame Crimson’s drug operation. He has an office in a warehouse on the docks. If he isn’t there, then I should at least be able to get some useful information on where I can find him.

  When my workout is complete, I go upstairs to check on Jessica. She’s still sleeping on the couch, though now she has shifted position to curl up on the cushions. I toss a blanket over her in case she gets cold later. Then I walk out the front door, careful not to slam it behind me.

  I’m used to riding the train by now. Like most everyone else I try to keep my mind on my business. I don’t look up at first when I hear a girl shout, “Get away from me!”

  “Come on, baby, let’s go back to my place and have some fun.”

  “I said get away, creep!”

  I finally look up to see a girl maybe a year or two older than me. She looks like how I used to before Daddy died with boring light brown hair, a cutesy pink T-shirt, and jeans. There’s a guy in a baggy shirt and saggy shorts trying to drape himself over her. He starts to run a hand over her chest; she elbows him sharply in the ribs.

  He hits her in the face hard enough to send her to her knees. At that point I’m done minding my own business. I jump to my feet and then hit him square in the stomach. He grunts with pain, but only staggers back a couple of steps. I kick him in the right knee hard enough that there’s a crack. He cries out and then drops onto his good knee. “You bitch! I’m going to kill you!”

  He tries to launch himself at me, but with only one good leg he’s off balance. It’s easy enough for me to step aside and then kick the back of his good leg. He screams as he topples forward. As he groans on the floor of the train, I squat down to whisper into his ear, “You’d better stay down.”

  The girl has gotten to her feet by now. She stares at me with wide eyes. “That…that was awesome. You were like a ninja.”

  “I took a class,” I say. I take her hand to lead her back to another car in case the idiot decides to get up or someone calls for the cops. We sit down on an open bench; I pull up my hoodie to make it hard for anyone to see my face.

  “Thank you so much,” the girl says.

  “It was nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing. You saved my life.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Melanie.”

  “Jane,” I say, not wanting to give out my real name.

  “That was really cool what you did. You totally kicked that guy’s ass.”

  “He deserved it.” To change the topic, I ask, “Where are you headed?”

  “My cousin’s friends are having a party over at this club on Reynolds Street. You want to come? It should be awesome.”

  “No thanks. I’ve got to work.”

  ***

  It’s a couple of bus transfers later before I’m close to the waterfront. There aren’t a lot of people around here at any time, but especially at night. I keep my hood up and walk fast so I don’t make myself a target.

  After a few blocks I get to a row of decrepit warehouses. Unlike a lot of cities, Redoubt City hasn’t tried to rebuild its waterfront into a haven for hipsters; Daddy always said it was because Madame Crimson wanted to keep the docks as seedy as possible. If these old warehouses were converted into condos and theme restaurants, how could she move drugs, guns, and other illegal goods?

  The problem is most of these warehouses don’t have numbers on them anymore. There are a few with numbers that haven’t peeled off or faded yet. I try to keep track in my head until I get near thirty-nine. That’s the one Arleigh Carr occupies.

  Even if I lost track of the numbers, the two guys out front with machine guns are a pretty good bet that I’m in the right place. I slow up before they can see me and then duck behind the wall of the warehouse next to Carr’s. This is going to be a lot more difficult than sneaking into Frankie Lutz’s office last night. I should have tried to get a blueprint of the building so I could map out a route before I got here, but then that still wouldn’t tell me where the guards would be posted.

  I walk around to the back of the warehouse next door and then peek around the wall again. I don’t see a stairway leading up, but there aren’t any guards either. That’s one little bit of good news. I creep along the back wall of the warehouse next door and then make sure no one is looking as I dash across the alley to behind number thirty-nine.

  As I make my way along the back of the warehouse, I see a r
usty, person-sized door. There isn’t a padlock or chain on it, at least not on the outside. Maybe this is how Carr gets up to his office. I test the knob and find that it turns. The problem then is the door won’t open. Is there another lock? A deadbolt maybe? In the movies the hero always uses a credit card to open a locked door, but I don’t own a credit card and if I did I wouldn’t have brought it with me.

  Out of frustration I yank on the door as hard as I can. I’m thrown backwards as the door pops open. It’s good there’s no one around to see me land on my butt. “Idiot,” I grumble and then get to my feet.

  I peek through the door, but there’s not a lot to see. Carr has probably gone home for the night, as has most of his crew. Apparently the watchmen aren’t too bright if they leave this back door unlocked and don’t check on it. Maybe they don’t even know about it.

  In any case, I’m in luck. I creep into the warehouse. The only light is from the lamps outside, giving the place a creepy orange glow. I can see stacks of crates that I’m sure are filled with all kinds of illegal stuff. Out of morbid curiosity I try to open the lid of a crate. It’s sealed shut, but I see one a few crates down with the lid ajar.

  “Holy shit,” I mumble as I stare into the crate. I’ve never seen a rocket launcher up close before. It’s really tempting to pick it up, but I don’t want to make any noise. I should have brought my phone along so I could take a picture to send to Carol, but she’d probably kill me before Madame Crimson’s thugs could.

  I turn away from the crates to look up at the second floor. Carr’s office is probably what used to be the foreman’s office. There’s a stairway at the back of the warehouse leading up there. I don’t see a light on in the office, but I try to be quiet anyway in case the guys outside are actually paying attention.

  The door to the office is locked. As I said, I didn’t bring a credit card and I don’t use hairpins either. There’s a lot easier way since the top half of the door is a pane of glass; I pull up the sleeve of my hoodie and then punch the glass. A jagged hole slightly bigger than my fist opens in the glass. I carefully reach through it to unlock the door.