Scarface kicked the door hard. It didn't budge an inch.
I sat at the kitchen table, a gun clutched in my hands, and a steaming mug of coffee sat right in front of me.
The walkie-talkie lay next to the mug, cranked all the way up to max volume. A second dull thud boomed from outside—someone was ramming the door with their shoulder. That was followed by a series of savage kicks. Then came Scarface's snarl of curses.
"...You f*****g said this was gonna be easy!"
"I ain't lyin' to you! There's enough food, heaters, diesel in there to last us a whole year—and she's hogging it all for herself!" Scott's voice cut through the air, shrill, with every word ending on a sharp upward tilt.
The third impact rattled the wall above the doorframe, sending a shower of dust drifting down. I stirred my c
