Chapter 7
They took Yvonne’s car, a tiny red Miata. She drove and didn’t waste any time. The streets were as free of traffic as they ever were in Atlanta, so they took a chance on the outerbelt.
The chance paid off, and half an hour after seeing Horace’s crown, they pulled into a cluster of shabby buildings, a collection of old factories and warehouses. Most with broken windows and rusty gates chained shut. Street numbers were painted on the sides in yard-high spraypaint, and they found 3975 toward the back of the complex.
The gate stood open. A harsh glow came through a grimy window and around the doorjamb.
A beat up mid-eighties Ford pickup truck—complete with rusty brush guards, silver silhouettes of nude women on the mudflaps, and a rollbar with a gigantic rebel flag—sat near the d
