Art’s POV
Hoppe’s No. 9 solvent smells like pine and old coins. It’s a good smell. It means the guns are clean, the barrels are clear, and we’re ready for whatever walks through the door.
I sit at the tiny kitchen table, running an oiled patch through the barrel of my shotgun. The metal clicks smoothly. A steady, rhythmic sound that fills the quiet of Eira’s studio apartment.
Soren is on the mattress, an ice pack taped to his ribs. He’s scrolling through his phone, though his eyes keep drifting shut. Draven is sprawled on the floor besides him, tossing a heavy brass casing into the air and catching it.
“Three days,” Draven says, catching the casing with a sharp snap of his fingers. “Not a single green-skinned bastard in the alley. You sure we didn’t kill the whole neighborhood?”
“T
