Shadows of Linwood

7331 words

The streetlight on Linwood buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cracked asphalt and the jagged edges of the vacant lot. Leon Mercer crouched low behind a rusted-out Chevy frame, the cold metal biting into his palm as he steadied himself. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, fogging briefly in the late November chill before vanishing into the dark. Across the lot, under the flickering light, the two men he’d been tracking for days stood with their backs to him, heads bent close like they were sharing a secret. The third figure—the big man from the Pontiac, the one who’d rolled up last night with the air of someone who owned the whole damn city—was there too, his broad shoulders cutting a shadow against the weak light. His voice carried in low rumbles, too far to make out words, but the tone was sharp, like a blade scraping stone. Leon’s knees ached from the crouch, the old injury from ‘Nam throbbing in the damp cold. He shifted his weight, careful not to let the gravel crunch under his boots. The air smelled of burnt rubber and something sour, maybe rotting trash from the alley beyond. His fingers flexed instinctively, itching for the weight of a weapon he didn’t have. Not tonight. Not yet. He’d told Reggie to...