Shit. They’re all dead: cousin Jose; the two niggas, Jake and the twitchy fellow; hell, the big white gringo never even made it outta the gun store. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that bullets were traded when they robbed the place, but one dead, two hurt before we even drove off? They musta’ known we were coming.
And who the fuck were “they”, anyway? I don’t know who “they” were, or what we even stole from them. I’m just the wheel-man. All I do is pick them up, deliver the goods, and shake any pigs that try to follow. Nothing to it, right? Only, our employer never said nuthin’ ’bout no …werewolves.
I still get shivers when I think about that. Couldn’t sleep for three nights, thinking about it. What it did to Jose. How it ripped Jake outta the car. It tore off the door like it was made of tin foil!
It doesn’t matter now. Whatever, whoever it was, it’s dead now. The goods got delivered, and I got the money. That’s what matters, right?
At least I could pay for Jose to have a decent funeral.