II. At the Warehouse
The dark night air fills my lungs with excitement and anticipation. I can feel the cold chill, and the winter frost nipping at my hands. Forward ahead I can see where the road bends and the warehouse starts on Basin City Avenue. The rain pounds on my coat like a Spartan warrior in the heat of battle. I can feel the rain in my hair and on my face and I wipe it away from my mouth …or maybe that's the bad taste. The bad taste of sorrow and the feeling that something will go wrong.
Lots of men have died at the Warehouse. I wouldn't be the first, but I could sure as hell be the next. I see a bum sleeping in a big cardboard box down the road from me. Poor fella. He probably used to have kids and a wife, before the factory closed and he started hitting her. No. Stop it. Why the hell are you making assumptions? Just because Lucille left you for a woman doesn't mean you have to get angry. The doctor told you it's natural. Her lesbianism won't be your downfall. That dyke.
I get to the corner and see the Warehouse door, cracked open a slight bit. It's strange. Where're the guards? A night like this, a crime like this, there should be guards. Hell, there should be Rottweilers sitting outside the front door, gnarling their teeth, barking at any strangers who happen to walk by even for a mile's length. Butt there aren't any. It's too strange. Something bad is gonna happen, and that's for damn sure. I check my watch. 11:27. Three minutes until the exchange. Good. I'm on time. Wouldn't wanna be late for the crime syndicate event of the month.
A little girl. Annie Garth, seven years old. She's smart, she's nice, she's funny, but most of all, to creeps like the Basin City Rogues, she's a trafficker. Who wouldn't want a sweet little girl like Annie? But of course, no one can just have their own kids and hope they turn out as good as her. It all comes down to this. I hope she's okay in there, she should be. They wouldn't kill her before the trade. Or at least, that's what I keep telling myself.