Chapter Eight
I’M NOT one of those polite girls, you know.
Knock, knock, knock.
Let’s have a conversation.
That only ever works in bad flicks, bad celluloid and since a little angels life is at stake, I lift the Mossberg.
“KABOOM.”
I blow a foot square hole into the door knob.
The plywood blasts open. I re-shoulder my long-gun and lift my Beretta and cruise through the door and into the hallway. With my 9mm poking straight ahead held with both hands, I head into the living room.
The place looks like a poster for Panic in Needles Park one of my fav flicks.
There’s a ripped up couch, over stuffed filthy lounges, torn up curtains, soiled clothes, old food cartons scattered everywhere. Cheerios, Oreos, open packages of Little Debbie, the usual junkie foods plastered every where.
Carp
