Chapter 10: “I can smell it.”

Jeff’s black El Camino rolled into the lot, the growling engine reluctant to fall silent as he turned the key. For the first time, he really took stock of the nearly empty parking lot. It wasn’t just sparse—it was predictable. Same handful of beat-up sedans, a truck that looked like it hadn’t moved in decades, and that one compact car that might as well have been a prop. Thirty spaces in total, all laid out like the lot had been drawn by someone who barely understood cars.

“Thirty units, thirty spaces,” Jeff muttered as he stepped out, surveying the area. “Ain’t shit around here. Where the hell are all their cars?”

He thought about it for a moment, the Missouri heat swallowing him whole, before shrugging it off. He had more pressing things to worry about. Heading to the back of the El Camino, Jeff grabbed his case of imports. With the humidity pressing in on him like a second skin, he barely noticed the sedan parked across the street, or the two brick walls in human form stepping out of it.

Jeff was halfway to the complex entrance when his instincts pinged, that deep-rooted cop sense that never really goes away. Something was off. Slowly, he set down the case of import beer and cracked one open. He started drinking from the green bottle, turned, and immediately locked eyes with two men walking directly toward him. Still continuing to drink from the bottle.

They were the kind of guys you didn’t need to guess about. Built like refrigerators, dressed like bad TV villains, and reeking of “I don’t get paid enough for this.” They walked with the deliberate purpose of people who knew exactly what they were about.

“You got someone who wants to talk to you,” one of them growled, his voice all gravel and zero charm.

Jeff raised a finger, signaling for him to wait as he took another sip.

“Oy! You hear him?” the other one barked, his frustration bubbling.

Jeff nodded nonchalantly, still drinking. He slowly extended his free hand, fingers spread. Then he began lowering them one at a time, a slow and deliberate countdown.

“What the hell’s he doing?” whispered one brute to the other.

The moment Jeff’s countdown reached two, he hurled the bottle directly into the face of the first man. The glass didn’t shatter, but the impact was enough to send the guy reeling back, clutching his bleeding nose. Before the second guy could react, Jeff’s fist shot forward into his throat, leaving him choking and stumbling.

“You piece of sh—!” the bleeding man wheezed, but Jeff wasn’t done. He followed up with a swift kick to the guy’s groin, doubling him over and sending him crashing into his partner.

“Later, fellas,” Jeff muttered as he took off running toward Cornice Place.

The sound of angry shouting erupted behind him, but Jeff didn’t look back. He bolted into the complex, boots pounding against the concrete, as the smell hit him; putrid, and unmistakable. It wasn’t just death; it was decay. His stomach churned, but the adrenaline kept him moving.

The enforcers were right on his tail, the sound of their boots echoing through the stairwell. Jeff zigged and zagged through the complex, ducking into random hallways and doubling back in a desperate attempt to lose them.

“Where the hell is he going?” one of them shouted, their heavy breaths betraying their lack of cardio.

“Why’s he running in circles?!”

Jeff smirked to himself. “Because you’re dumb enough to follow, that’s why.”

He darted around a corner and into another hallway, the stench of decay hitting him like a physical blow. It was so strong now that he gagged, doubling over for a moment. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, covering his nose with his sleeve. “Somebody’s ripe.”

His distraction cost him precious seconds, and he heard the pounding footsteps closing in. Forcing himself forward, he made a mental note to figure out where the smell was coming from later—if he survived.

Ahead, a door opened, and Mr. Wallace stepped out, looking every bit as unbothered as ever. His shirt was perfectly pressed, and he moved with the casual ease of a man who didn’t have two angry gorillas barreling toward him.

Jeff didn’t have time to explain. He grabbed Wallace by the shoulders and shoved him back into his office, slamming the door shut behind them. Wallace stumbled slightly, his face a mix of confusion and irritation.

“What the hell are you doing, Eccles?” Wallace barked, his accent slipping into a different drawl.

Jeff ignored him, leaning against the door and trying to catch his breath. “Is that a cockney accent now?” he managed between gasps.

“What? What are you on about?” Wallace demanded.

“Never mind,” Jeff muttered, holding up a hand for silence as he heard the enforcers outside.

“He went this way!” one of them shouted, their voices muffled by the door. “No, over here!”

Jeff pressed his ear to the wood, holding his breath as the sound of their footsteps faded. He peeked through the blinds, watching them disappear around a corner.

“Friends of yours?” Wallace asked dryly, straightening his shirt.

“Yeah. We play tag every Wednesday,” Jeff replied, rolling his eyes. Then his face turned serious. “You got another body in here, Wallace.”

Wallace blinked, his mouth opening as if to argue, but Jeff didn’t give him the chance. He pulled out his phone and dialed Steve.

The line barely rang once before Steve answered. “What?”

“Steve, it’s me,” Jeff said, his tone urgent. “I’m at the apartments. We’ve got another body down here. I can smell it.

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