8-Ball
You may rely on it.
One night Nell lets drop to Jordan she might've found where The Horse keeps his supply. She's sure, says she got the tip-off from a dude who worked for The Horse once.
"Who works for him and then lives after quitting?"
Nell shrugs.
"And how'd we even get out alive though?"
"He's out of town. And his thugs follow him. Look, how much did your hustle bring in today?"
Jordan feels the roll of bills in his jeans. "Not enough."
"Exactly."
Signs point to yes.
Nell's right: the abandoned factory near the rail yard on 3rd and Crestview has people in it, and lots of blow. Getting in's easy; everyone listens with two guns pointed at them.
"It's not like we want all of it," Nell says to the workers there, packing a duffle with tape-wrapped kilos. "Just enough to get us out of town before the boss comes back."
"Who said he left?" One of the workers says.
Outlook not so good.
Tires screech outside. Too late. The Horse's squad enter with gunfire. Nell drops, as do most of the workers. Jordan gets spared, except for a single bullet that grazes his forehead, dousing his eyes and mouth with blood.
Ask again later.
The Horse with his permanently neutral expression, his unkempt unibrow, stands with his goons, staring over white mountains and bodies surrounded by growing pools of crimson, the filth and grime of a shitty factory, at Jordan.
Jordan reaches for his gun—