Page 89 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘You ready?’

‘I wish I’d stopped to pick up a gun before leaving,’ she says.

‘Me too. But our knives have served us well so far. We can do this.’ Despite telling her, I am reassuring myself, too. We are very much bringing knives to a gunfight.

‘If I die before you, I’m coming back to haunt your sorry arse.’

‘You’d be a hot ghost.’

Eliza’s throat bobs as she stares ahead at the warehouse. It might be the most nervous I’ve seen her.

Which scares me.

‘Bolt cutters,’ she says, holding out a hand like a surgeon.

‘At least it’s not fingers today.’ I rake through the kitbag and locate the cutters, handing them over.

Her lips twitch. It’s not a smile, but close enough. Under the circumstances, I’ll take it.

The padlock is thick and sturdy, but the chain isn’t nearly as robust. The chain yields with a loud clank, both of us stilling.

We both flatten against the fence. Not that it provides any cover. It’s bloody see-through. I count to fifteen in my head, watching the building for any signs of life.

Nothing.

Eliza exhales through her nose.

‘Ready?’ she breathes.

‘Lead the way, Sweetheart.’

‘Nothing I’m about to do is going to be sweet.’

The chain slides free, and I ease the gate back one inch at a time. It gives a long groan as I open it. Then we’re in.

Eliza is ahead of me, never one to hang back. Her knife is already in her hand, fingers poised lightly to pivot between stabbing or throwing – whatever is necessary. Every step is quiet but sure. She stops on the way across the yard, and I don’t know why until I follow her sightline and spot a security camera on the far corner, dead and rusted over.

The side door handle depresses without a fight. The door isn’t locked, and I don’t take that as a great sign. Still, we have to check. An unlocked door is a sign of carelessness, or an invitation. And rarely is an invitation into a Death Council building one you want to take.

I’m not one to tap out of a party. Could be done with a shot of tequila.

I hate that she goes in first, but I know better than to argue.

I follow, pulling the door closed behind us, and the darkness swallows us. The air smells like dust and damp, and something faintly rubbery.

No tang of blood, or the salty smell of sweat and piss.

Ahead, there are patches of light amongst the gloom. Squares of visibility floating with dust motes.

And pallets.

Stacked high throughout the space, row after row reaching towards the ceiling like wooden and plastic-coated giants looming over us. Thousands of identical brown cardboard boxes sealed with packing tape. No indication of what they contain.

The warehouse seems bigger on the inside than on the outside. A criminal TARDIS, if you will.

Big enough for Fraser to be hidden somewhere.

Eliza pulls out a mini torch, the beam dancing through the darkness and illuminating one tiny patch at a time.