Fifteen Minutes to Midnight - Chapter 3
Title: Fifteen Minutes to Midnight
Author: fulltobursting aka unilocular
Artist:
hinky_hippo
Summary: In the midst of a case, Tim and Tony are at each others' throats...like usual. But when a routine interview takes a potentially deadly turn, they both learn the true meaning of friendship.
Rating: Strong Teen
Spoilers/Warnings: General spoilers up to 12x10: House Rules. General violence, whump, bad language, and lots of movie references.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
Chapter Three
Buried deep in the foothills of the Piedmonts, the Moser homestead is miles from anything that even remotely resembles civilization. I can’t remember the last time we passed an inhabitable structure, let alone a real house. Tiny shacks with decaying cars line the pot-holed, single lane road.
Tim hangs a right onto a driveway that’s a set of tire tracks cut into the grass. As the Charger bounces along the curving path, I fight to keep down the coffee I had for breakfast. Outside, an old shed collapses into itself and the trees slowly claim a herd of rusted out tractors.
The tire tracks end in a grassless patch, smack dab in between a huge farmhouse and an ancient barn. Both of them have an awkward slant to their roofs and exteriors forgot their original paint color long ago. Right now, they’re neck-in-neck in a race to rejoin the earth. My money’s on the barn.
I climb out of the car and take a deep breath. The air here is cool and crisp, weighed down only by the scent of wet dirt and old leaves. When a frigid wind roars past, I hug my jacket tighter.
Seconds later, Tim’s head appears over the top of the car.
“We really are out in the middle of nowhere.” The announcement earns me an eye roll. “Why do you think anyone would want to stay out here?”
“Just look around.” Tim gestures at the view: tips of lifeless mountains kissing the cloudless sky. “It’s absolutely breathtaking.”
If his definition of breathtaking includes dead trees, decaying corpses of classic cars, and an infinite amount of crabgrass, Tim is delusional. Given the fact that not even a bird celebrates this so-called beautiful morning, this place is downright creepy.
He puts his hands on hips, inhales loudly. “Could you imagine waking up to this every day, Tony?”
“I’d go crazy.”
Tim cocks an eyebrow. “Too late.”
After I narrow my eyes at him, we move towards the house.
“This place reminds me of Children of the Corn,” I whisper.
He glances around the farm. “There aren’t any corn or kids here.”
“So what, McMoviePhone? That farmhouse is a dead ringer for the one in the movie. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a cult of killer kids just waiting for us inside.”
Tim genuinely laughs. “Or maybe it’s just an old house?”
I shoot him a sideways glance. “Have you ever seen a horror movie?”
“I saw Deliverance and Jaws, but I guess I’m going to have to torrent Children of the Corn this weekend to figure out what the hell you’re talking about.” He laughs. “Until then, let’s just get this over with.”
I shrug. “If some teenager crucifies you in a field, McGee, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim says, picking up the pace. “If we get out of here in time, do you mind if we stop for lunch at the coffee place we saw a few miles back? I’m starving.”
“Sure, but you’re paying.”
We head over the grave of a vegetable garden with its inhabitants’ skeletons left to rot after last week’s frost. I snap my head up as I try to ignore the chill meandering down my spine. It’s just the cold, I tell myself. Today’s temperatures dip dangerously close to freezing.
I remind myself there are no crazed children hellbent on ridding the world of all the adults here.
I keep my eyes fixed on Tim’s back when we climb the warped porch steps. Underneath our weight, the wood groans and shrieks as though we’re torturing it. For a brief moment, I suspect Zoe lied to me when she said I looked like I lost weight recently. Either way, I might need to get serious about my diet again.
Tim takes a stance by the front door, hand on his service weapon, as I head down the porch to peer into one of the windows. Newspapers taped to the glass hide the interior, so I offer Tim a half-shrug. When I join him, I find him staring at the door intensely.
“Do you think anyone’s home?” he asks.
“The driveway’s deserted, but there’s only one way to find out.”
I wait a beat for him to knock, but he doesn’t move. When I notice the tarantula-sized spider in the middle of the door, I chase it away. The insect sprints onto the porch, directly for Tim, and he bolts. By the time he’s halfway to the car, I’m doubled over with laughter.
Tim stops dead. Then he turns back to give me his best Gibbs-impression. Nowhere near the master, but he might be close in a few more years.
“It was just a little bug, Timmy,” I call.
He slinks back, stink-eye still out in full-force. “That thing was the size of my hand.”
When he holds his hand out for emphasis, I copy the motion.
“Maybe yours, but mine’s definitely bigger.” Somehow, his face turns even more sour. “It wasn’t going to hurt you, McGee. I bet it was more afraid of us than we are of it.”
“Bullshit,” he grunts. “Let’s just get this over with.”
After a quick nod, I stare at him until he knocks on the front door. I decide not to tell Tim about the legions of termites that are probably turning the house to Swiss cheese as we stand here.
A crash comes from inside.
Tim’s hand jumps to his holster. “Did you hear that?”
“Maybe that spider has a friend.”
When his cheeks go pale, I bite back a laugh. No one comes to the door, so I pound on it hard enough to rattle the hinges. There’s a scraping that sounds like someone turning a deadbolt.
“Open up, federal agents,” I announce. “We know you’re in there.”
“We have a warrant,” Tim adds for flair, because we definitely don’t yet.
Someone inside gives a loud sigh before the door cracks slightly. Half of a man’s face appears. His skin so white it looks like he’s never seen the sun and his visible eye is bloodshot, narrowed. Greasy black hair tumbles down into his face. The stench of mold and dust sneaks out of the house as though it were making a jailbreak, and it makes my eyes water.
Tim displays his badge and takes a full step back.
“Special Agents DiNozzo and McGee, NCIS,” I say, flashing my own. “We’re here to ask - “
“Federal agents?” The man crooks a suspicious stare. “What are you doing all the way out here?”
I glance at him over my sunglasses. “Investigating.”
The man leans forward to scrutinize my creds as though he might be able to spot a fake. Tim quirks an eyebrow at me, but I shrug. Whatever it takes to get the wheels spinning. I don’t care what we have to do as long as we finish interview over so I can take a nap on the way back to the city.
“Naval Criminal Investigative Service?” I think the man tries to smile, but only manages to bare his teeth. “Aren’t you boys a little far from the ocean?”
“When we’re in the middle of a case,” Tim explains, “we get around.” I disguise my laugh as a cough, but still earn myself a dirty look. “Do you know Charlene Moser? Mister…?”
“I’m her brother, Kenneth Gentry.” He shakes our hands before sudden panic edges onto his pockmarked face. “Is everything okay? Did something happen to her?”
Tim presses his lips together. “It might easier if we speak inside, Mr. Gentry.”
“Call me Kenneth, please. Just tell me whether my sister’s okay.”
“Charlene is fine,” I interject, “but she is the prime suspect in a murder.”
What little color is present drains away from Ken’s cheeks. “Oh, I had…I had no idea she could do such a thing. Perhaps…you’re right…please, come in.”
As he slides out of the way, Ken holds out his arm to usher us inside. I hold my breath, fully expecting to discover a hoarder’s paradise, but the décor is oddly reminiscent of the lifestyle magazines I used to find in Tim’s desk. I pocket my aviators to admire the view.
Just beside the door, a shoe organizer holds a strange assortment of work boots and sneakers in various sizes. It strikes me odd that most of them are different sizes of men’s shoes.
“How long have you been here, Ken?” I call.
“It’s Kenneth.” He glances over. “About four weeks. Charlene called me right after her husband got deployed. She thinks the house is too big for just her, so she feels safer with one of us around.”
“Us?”
“Yeah, one of the family. There are five of us.” His cheeky grin melts into a frown. “Well, once upon a time there were five. Sadly, our little sister passed away a few years ago. So now, we’re down to four.”
“I’m sorry to hear,” I say.
“She’s with G-d now and that’s the only thing that matters.”
After a tight nod, he leads us over the Oriental floor runner and past pictures of the Mosers from all over the world, down a long hallway into an expertly decorated living room. Even though the fabrics gave up their colors a long time ago, it’s obvious that someone once took the time to ensure the busy floral pattern on the sofa matched the curtains and the throw pillows…and the rugs.
Ken claims a wingchair before he gestures to the couch. Without needing another invitation, Tim sinks into the sofa, but I linger by the bay window. From here, the highlighted view of the mountains might be breathtaking. I finally think I could understand why someone might abandon the city to come here.
“Can I get you boys anything? Coffee? Water?” Ken asks.
I nod. “I’ll take a - “
“We’re fine,” Tim interrupts. “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
Ken clasps his hands in his lap. “Anything.”
“Do you know where your sister was last night?”
“Here. With me.”
Tim takes out his notepad to dutifully record the interview while I size Ken up. Perched in his seat with his flannel shirt and ratty jeans, he looks as out of place as a koala on a submarine. He shoots me a bright smile, but it doesn’t extinguish the niggling in my gut.
“You were together all night?” I ask.
Ken nods quick enough to give himself whiplash. “You bet. We watched a couple of movies and then, we went to bed around midnight. I didn’t get up again until about six and by then, she was gone. I thought she’d gone for a run until you boys got here.”
“For - “ I check my watch “ - six hours?”
“That’s not unusual.”
“Uh, yeah. Okay.” I half-nod. “What did you watch?”
“His Girl Friday and Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.”
“You can never go wrong with Cary Grant or Marilyn Monroe.” When Ken drops his gaze to the floor, that familiar niggling in my gut acts up. I bet he’s lying about Charlene’s alibi. So I add: “Say, Ken, what did you think about Rosalind Russell in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes? Pretty ace, huh?”
Ken makes a face. “I thought she was quite talented. Rosalind Russell is a gorgeous blonde.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that.”
Tim shoots me a look that says, what does this have to do with anything?
Okay, I could forgive a non-film buff for confusing Rosalind Russell from His Girl Friday and Jane Russell from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. But Jane Russell was the brunette, not the blonde. That was Marilyn Monroe. And there’s no excuse for confusing anyone with Marilyn Monroe. Ever. I bet Ken didn’t even watch the film.
Ready to get back to the interview, Tim shifts towards Ken. “Is it unusual for your sister to leave without telling you?”
Ken shakes his head. “Like I said, she liked to go for early morning runs. You see, she’s training for a marathon in December. So she wanted to get her miles in before the snow started. She always hated the treadmill.”
Tim makes a note. “Ah, did you - “
“Say, Ken,” I interrupt, “where’s your bathroom?”
While Ken tells me it’s upstairs, Tim’s face turns relieved like he’s excited to have the privacy to complete the interview. Maybe he thinks he’ll have everything wrapped up before I get back.
As I slowly climb the steps, I shoot Ellie a text: Did we get our warrant yet?
Her reply is instantaneous: Still waiting. Will let you know as soon as it comes through.
Rolling my eyes, I pause on the landing to survey the top floor. Straight ahead is a small bathroom, its claw-foot tub plays hide-and-seek with me around the doorjamb. Three doors-probably leading to bedrooms-line a short, dark hallway. Two of them are closed, but the farthest one is slightly ajar.
While probable cause might be a stretch, I might be able to help Ellie get us that warrant if I find something visible from the hallway. My heart skips a beat, just like it always does when I have a hunch.
After slamming the bathroom door for effect, I sneak down the hallway. I ease myself against the rough wall, trying to peer through the tiny crack. But it isn’t big enough. All I can make out is the edge of a brass daybed and a sliver of cherry wood dresser. So I slide the door open another inch to check the room. If it turns out to be important, I’ll come up with an explanation later.
Three AR-M9 rifles lay innocently on the bed next to a pile of Kevlar body armor.
“Oh shit,” I whisper.
I head inside to investigate. The stack of papers on the dresser is even more damning. I would recognize the layout of the Marine Base at Quantico anywhere. As I flip through the pages, the amount of information on how to infiltrate the base without being detected scares the hell out of me.
Why would Ken gearing up for a war on a Marine base?
Whatever the reason, I’m sure as hell not ready to find out. It’ll have to wait until after Gibbs and Ellie-and preferably, Zoe with her friends at the ATF- get here before we ask those questions. Right now, I need to alert Tim so he can keep things cool and conversational downstairs while I notify Gibbs.
Back-pedaling, I scramble for my cell.
I start to text Tim, Guns upst -
“Drop the phone!”
Standing in the doorway is Ken with a shotgun aimed right at my chest.
Click to Read Chapter Four
Author: fulltobursting aka unilocular
Artist:
hinky_hippo
Summary: In the midst of a case, Tim and Tony are at each others' throats...like usual. But when a routine interview takes a potentially deadly turn, they both learn the true meaning of friendship.
Rating: Strong Teen
Spoilers/Warnings: General spoilers up to 12x10: House Rules. General violence, whump, bad language, and lots of movie references.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
Chapter Three
Buried deep in the foothills of the Piedmonts, the Moser homestead is miles from anything that even remotely resembles civilization. I can’t remember the last time we passed an inhabitable structure, let alone a real house. Tiny shacks with decaying cars line the pot-holed, single lane road.
Tim hangs a right onto a driveway that’s a set of tire tracks cut into the grass. As the Charger bounces along the curving path, I fight to keep down the coffee I had for breakfast. Outside, an old shed collapses into itself and the trees slowly claim a herd of rusted out tractors.
The tire tracks end in a grassless patch, smack dab in between a huge farmhouse and an ancient barn. Both of them have an awkward slant to their roofs and exteriors forgot their original paint color long ago. Right now, they’re neck-in-neck in a race to rejoin the earth. My money’s on the barn.
I climb out of the car and take a deep breath. The air here is cool and crisp, weighed down only by the scent of wet dirt and old leaves. When a frigid wind roars past, I hug my jacket tighter.
Seconds later, Tim’s head appears over the top of the car.
“We really are out in the middle of nowhere.” The announcement earns me an eye roll. “Why do you think anyone would want to stay out here?”
“Just look around.” Tim gestures at the view: tips of lifeless mountains kissing the cloudless sky. “It’s absolutely breathtaking.”
If his definition of breathtaking includes dead trees, decaying corpses of classic cars, and an infinite amount of crabgrass, Tim is delusional. Given the fact that not even a bird celebrates this so-called beautiful morning, this place is downright creepy.
He puts his hands on hips, inhales loudly. “Could you imagine waking up to this every day, Tony?”
“I’d go crazy.”
Tim cocks an eyebrow. “Too late.”
After I narrow my eyes at him, we move towards the house.
“This place reminds me of Children of the Corn,” I whisper.
He glances around the farm. “There aren’t any corn or kids here.”
“So what, McMoviePhone? That farmhouse is a dead ringer for the one in the movie. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a cult of killer kids just waiting for us inside.”
Tim genuinely laughs. “Or maybe it’s just an old house?”
I shoot him a sideways glance. “Have you ever seen a horror movie?”
“I saw Deliverance and Jaws, but I guess I’m going to have to torrent Children of the Corn this weekend to figure out what the hell you’re talking about.” He laughs. “Until then, let’s just get this over with.”
I shrug. “If some teenager crucifies you in a field, McGee, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim says, picking up the pace. “If we get out of here in time, do you mind if we stop for lunch at the coffee place we saw a few miles back? I’m starving.”
“Sure, but you’re paying.”
We head over the grave of a vegetable garden with its inhabitants’ skeletons left to rot after last week’s frost. I snap my head up as I try to ignore the chill meandering down my spine. It’s just the cold, I tell myself. Today’s temperatures dip dangerously close to freezing.
I remind myself there are no crazed children hellbent on ridding the world of all the adults here.
I keep my eyes fixed on Tim’s back when we climb the warped porch steps. Underneath our weight, the wood groans and shrieks as though we’re torturing it. For a brief moment, I suspect Zoe lied to me when she said I looked like I lost weight recently. Either way, I might need to get serious about my diet again.
Tim takes a stance by the front door, hand on his service weapon, as I head down the porch to peer into one of the windows. Newspapers taped to the glass hide the interior, so I offer Tim a half-shrug. When I join him, I find him staring at the door intensely.
“Do you think anyone’s home?” he asks.
“The driveway’s deserted, but there’s only one way to find out.”
I wait a beat for him to knock, but he doesn’t move. When I notice the tarantula-sized spider in the middle of the door, I chase it away. The insect sprints onto the porch, directly for Tim, and he bolts. By the time he’s halfway to the car, I’m doubled over with laughter.
Tim stops dead. Then he turns back to give me his best Gibbs-impression. Nowhere near the master, but he might be close in a few more years.
“It was just a little bug, Timmy,” I call.
He slinks back, stink-eye still out in full-force. “That thing was the size of my hand.”
When he holds his hand out for emphasis, I copy the motion.
“Maybe yours, but mine’s definitely bigger.” Somehow, his face turns even more sour. “It wasn’t going to hurt you, McGee. I bet it was more afraid of us than we are of it.”
“Bullshit,” he grunts. “Let’s just get this over with.”
After a quick nod, I stare at him until he knocks on the front door. I decide not to tell Tim about the legions of termites that are probably turning the house to Swiss cheese as we stand here.
A crash comes from inside.
Tim’s hand jumps to his holster. “Did you hear that?”
“Maybe that spider has a friend.”
When his cheeks go pale, I bite back a laugh. No one comes to the door, so I pound on it hard enough to rattle the hinges. There’s a scraping that sounds like someone turning a deadbolt.
“Open up, federal agents,” I announce. “We know you’re in there.”
“We have a warrant,” Tim adds for flair, because we definitely don’t yet.
Someone inside gives a loud sigh before the door cracks slightly. Half of a man’s face appears. His skin so white it looks like he’s never seen the sun and his visible eye is bloodshot, narrowed. Greasy black hair tumbles down into his face. The stench of mold and dust sneaks out of the house as though it were making a jailbreak, and it makes my eyes water.
Tim displays his badge and takes a full step back.
“Special Agents DiNozzo and McGee, NCIS,” I say, flashing my own. “We’re here to ask - “
“Federal agents?” The man crooks a suspicious stare. “What are you doing all the way out here?”
I glance at him over my sunglasses. “Investigating.”
The man leans forward to scrutinize my creds as though he might be able to spot a fake. Tim quirks an eyebrow at me, but I shrug. Whatever it takes to get the wheels spinning. I don’t care what we have to do as long as we finish interview over so I can take a nap on the way back to the city.
“Naval Criminal Investigative Service?” I think the man tries to smile, but only manages to bare his teeth. “Aren’t you boys a little far from the ocean?”
“When we’re in the middle of a case,” Tim explains, “we get around.” I disguise my laugh as a cough, but still earn myself a dirty look. “Do you know Charlene Moser? Mister…?”
“I’m her brother, Kenneth Gentry.” He shakes our hands before sudden panic edges onto his pockmarked face. “Is everything okay? Did something happen to her?”
Tim presses his lips together. “It might easier if we speak inside, Mr. Gentry.”
“Call me Kenneth, please. Just tell me whether my sister’s okay.”
“Charlene is fine,” I interject, “but she is the prime suspect in a murder.”
What little color is present drains away from Ken’s cheeks. “Oh, I had…I had no idea she could do such a thing. Perhaps…you’re right…please, come in.”
As he slides out of the way, Ken holds out his arm to usher us inside. I hold my breath, fully expecting to discover a hoarder’s paradise, but the décor is oddly reminiscent of the lifestyle magazines I used to find in Tim’s desk. I pocket my aviators to admire the view.
Just beside the door, a shoe organizer holds a strange assortment of work boots and sneakers in various sizes. It strikes me odd that most of them are different sizes of men’s shoes.
“How long have you been here, Ken?” I call.
“It’s Kenneth.” He glances over. “About four weeks. Charlene called me right after her husband got deployed. She thinks the house is too big for just her, so she feels safer with one of us around.”
“Us?”
“Yeah, one of the family. There are five of us.” His cheeky grin melts into a frown. “Well, once upon a time there were five. Sadly, our little sister passed away a few years ago. So now, we’re down to four.”
“I’m sorry to hear,” I say.
“She’s with G-d now and that’s the only thing that matters.”
After a tight nod, he leads us over the Oriental floor runner and past pictures of the Mosers from all over the world, down a long hallway into an expertly decorated living room. Even though the fabrics gave up their colors a long time ago, it’s obvious that someone once took the time to ensure the busy floral pattern on the sofa matched the curtains and the throw pillows…and the rugs.
Ken claims a wingchair before he gestures to the couch. Without needing another invitation, Tim sinks into the sofa, but I linger by the bay window. From here, the highlighted view of the mountains might be breathtaking. I finally think I could understand why someone might abandon the city to come here.
“Can I get you boys anything? Coffee? Water?” Ken asks.
I nod. “I’ll take a - “
“We’re fine,” Tim interrupts. “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
Ken clasps his hands in his lap. “Anything.”
“Do you know where your sister was last night?”
“Here. With me.”
Tim takes out his notepad to dutifully record the interview while I size Ken up. Perched in his seat with his flannel shirt and ratty jeans, he looks as out of place as a koala on a submarine. He shoots me a bright smile, but it doesn’t extinguish the niggling in my gut.
“You were together all night?” I ask.
Ken nods quick enough to give himself whiplash. “You bet. We watched a couple of movies and then, we went to bed around midnight. I didn’t get up again until about six and by then, she was gone. I thought she’d gone for a run until you boys got here.”
“For - “ I check my watch “ - six hours?”
“That’s not unusual.”
“Uh, yeah. Okay.” I half-nod. “What did you watch?”
“His Girl Friday and Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.”
“You can never go wrong with Cary Grant or Marilyn Monroe.” When Ken drops his gaze to the floor, that familiar niggling in my gut acts up. I bet he’s lying about Charlene’s alibi. So I add: “Say, Ken, what did you think about Rosalind Russell in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes? Pretty ace, huh?”
Ken makes a face. “I thought she was quite talented. Rosalind Russell is a gorgeous blonde.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that.”
Tim shoots me a look that says, what does this have to do with anything?
Okay, I could forgive a non-film buff for confusing Rosalind Russell from His Girl Friday and Jane Russell from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. But Jane Russell was the brunette, not the blonde. That was Marilyn Monroe. And there’s no excuse for confusing anyone with Marilyn Monroe. Ever. I bet Ken didn’t even watch the film.
Ready to get back to the interview, Tim shifts towards Ken. “Is it unusual for your sister to leave without telling you?”
Ken shakes his head. “Like I said, she liked to go for early morning runs. You see, she’s training for a marathon in December. So she wanted to get her miles in before the snow started. She always hated the treadmill.”
Tim makes a note. “Ah, did you - “
“Say, Ken,” I interrupt, “where’s your bathroom?”
While Ken tells me it’s upstairs, Tim’s face turns relieved like he’s excited to have the privacy to complete the interview. Maybe he thinks he’ll have everything wrapped up before I get back.
As I slowly climb the steps, I shoot Ellie a text: Did we get our warrant yet?
Her reply is instantaneous: Still waiting. Will let you know as soon as it comes through.
Rolling my eyes, I pause on the landing to survey the top floor. Straight ahead is a small bathroom, its claw-foot tub plays hide-and-seek with me around the doorjamb. Three doors-probably leading to bedrooms-line a short, dark hallway. Two of them are closed, but the farthest one is slightly ajar.
While probable cause might be a stretch, I might be able to help Ellie get us that warrant if I find something visible from the hallway. My heart skips a beat, just like it always does when I have a hunch.
After slamming the bathroom door for effect, I sneak down the hallway. I ease myself against the rough wall, trying to peer through the tiny crack. But it isn’t big enough. All I can make out is the edge of a brass daybed and a sliver of cherry wood dresser. So I slide the door open another inch to check the room. If it turns out to be important, I’ll come up with an explanation later.
Three AR-M9 rifles lay innocently on the bed next to a pile of Kevlar body armor.
“Oh shit,” I whisper.
I head inside to investigate. The stack of papers on the dresser is even more damning. I would recognize the layout of the Marine Base at Quantico anywhere. As I flip through the pages, the amount of information on how to infiltrate the base without being detected scares the hell out of me.
Why would Ken gearing up for a war on a Marine base?
Whatever the reason, I’m sure as hell not ready to find out. It’ll have to wait until after Gibbs and Ellie-and preferably, Zoe with her friends at the ATF- get here before we ask those questions. Right now, I need to alert Tim so he can keep things cool and conversational downstairs while I notify Gibbs.
Back-pedaling, I scramble for my cell.
I start to text Tim, Guns upst -
“Drop the phone!”
Standing in the doorway is Ken with a shotgun aimed right at my chest.
Click to Read Chapter Four