March 5th, 2018
Thankfully Sal had a full tank of gas and kept his truck, an old Chevy, perhaps a ’77 or a few years later, in good shape. He’d added a few things and perhaps even upgraded here and there, but otherwise it felt pretty authentic. Turning on the radio he switched over to an oldies rock station, enjoying the tunes as he kept the window down and his mind on his final goal.
He knew just where the men that had beaten him were, he knew where they would likely be, and he knew very well that if they had any sense they’d expect him to be making his way back. They were stupid enough to leave him alive but beaten, but he had a hunch that their boss wanted a final go at him before punching his ticket for the final time. That was just fine, he had one stop to make before he got to the Strip and then he’d be making his final house call before leaving the state.
Inhaling through his nose he had to grimace as the bruised ribs he’d incurred ached from the effort, reminding him that it had only been a day since his beatdown. That was okay, the pain that should have left him all but crippled was keeping him going, keeping him sharp. Of course that was the adrenaline rush too, and it would wear off eventually, but before it did he meant to at least get to the one hidey hole bordering good old Las Vegas before he passed out for the night.
If he had a concussion then he should be in the clear by now, he hoped. Last night had gone just fine and he’d woke easily enough. The other injuries were likely worse, a mashed-up left hand that didn’t matter as much, a couple of fingers broken on his right hand that could be splinted, and his ribs of course. But thankfully there was nothing else but cuts, abrasions, a couple of gashes, and a lot of deep bruising that would heal on its own eventually.
It took about as long as he’d figured, close to an hour, before he reached the outskirts of Vegas, and it took another twenty minutes to get to his cache, as it was located in a storage bin at a point between Vegas and Henderson. Keying in his code to get into the gated storage area he drove Sal’s truck right up to his unit, a spacious, apartment-sized storage locker he’d been renting for the past few years. Shutting off the engine he made his way over to the lock, thumbing the hidden catch that was his backup in case he ever lost his key.
It took one good yank to send the door rattling upwards and along its track, exposing the well-ordered mayhem that was ready and waiting.
“Home sweet home,” he muttered, grinning to himself as he stepped into the storage locker.
(to be continued)