Sinclair

AS WE PULLED UP TO THE WAREHOUSE with the headlights off, it was eerily quiet. It struck me right then and right there that this quiet was what people often described in television and books as "too quiet." There was not even a hint to suggest that Sinclair and the others had been here earlier even though Sonny had said they were supposed to be here for sure.

As Sonny took in the scene—the abandoned looking warehouse, the "too quiet to be safe" dark night enveloping us and the fact that there was no evidence of his bosses or his friends—his eyes narrowed and he began to exit the vehicle slowly. Following Sonny's movements, the rest of us began to get out as well. Something in the air around us was dangerous, charged, it made my heart pound and made sweat dew on my forehead despite the fact it was incredibly chilly out right now. My hands shook a little as I pushed open the door and jumped from the car and landed on the soft, slightly overgrown grass.

One of Sonny's guns was already in his hands and, as all the guys followed suit and as Carla readied her bat, he looked back at all of us and whispered, "We're doing a quick sweep. We all stay together so we don't get ambushed. If Lucky really is here like Boss heard, we need to be prepared."

I felt a slight chill down my spine at hearing Lucky's name. I had never met him but there was something about him that, even if I didn't know him, was becoming increasingly terrifying. It was even more terrifying to know that he seemed to have waged some personal war on Sinclair and The Iron Order. If Sinclair were here right now and if I conveyed these thoughts to him, he would merely tell me that it probably wasn't personal. That it only felt personal because Lucky was trying to strike at everything he cared about. But Sinclair would say that in his business—the business that thrives on survival of the fittest—going after what your opponent cares about is the smartest move. Sinclair would tell me that Lucky was just doing what anyone in their line of work would do. Lucky was just trying to hit Sinclair where it hurt because once Sinclair got stupid and fell apart, so would his business.

I can't help thinking that it's more than that, though.

There's something about the way Lucky's doing things that just rubs me the wrong way. I had been thinking these things for a while but now, as we all crept closer to the warehouse, I began flipping through these thoughts again to keep my mind busy.

Firstly, and this is a theory I had been toying with since I spoke with The Sandman in the library, but why didn't Lucky just ordered for me to be killed. If Lucky had truly wanted to destroy Sinclair and rattle him up a little, then surely killing me would have been more than enough. And yet, Lucky had sent The Sandman to try to lure me over to his side. More than that, Lucky had tried to make me his. That for me is where it seemed to be more personal, I continued to think as one of the guys slowly slid the warehouse door open and a loud, ominous creek belted out into the quiet night. Someone turned on a flashlight and let the light peer into the darkness, scanning the inside of the warehouse, seeing nothing, we began to creep forward again and I let myself slip back into my thoughts.

Killing me would be business for people in Sinclair and Lucky's line of work but making me his and using me to kill Sinclair, that's way more personal. That sounds a lot like someone who has some kind of personal vendetta against Sinclair and wants to hit him where it really hurts: me.

I am how someone would hit Sinclair where it really hurts. And for Lucky to act on that in a way that would, not only hurt Sinclair and rattle him but in a way that would break his heart as well.

Yeah, that just felt a little too personal to me. Which had to mean that Lucky had to be someone Sinclair knew.

As we crept further into the warehouse, with the flashlight serving as our only guide in the pitch black darkness, I tried to run over—not for the first time—scenarios of who Lucky might have been.