Chapter 37: The Clubhouse

The world went dark as rough fabric covered Bishop and Rocco's eyes. The guy who'd introduced himself as Jack Dalton – "But call me Red, everyone does" – was all business now.

"Sorry, boys," Red's voice came from somewhere to the left. "Can't have you blabbing about our clubhouse. You all know that this is a shady business and all that." He chuckled, but there was an edge to it. "Don't sweat it though. Easy job, in and out. You'll be free as birds when it's over."

Yeah, right. Because blindfolds and mystery locations always meant 'easy job.'

Bishop's heart was doing the cha-cha in his throat. He'd never been this scared, not even during their craziest stunts back on Third Street. Back then, death was just another day. Who cared?

But now? Now he had something to lose.

Avery had shown them a different path. A taste of normal – of decent. And that stuff was addictive. Bishop suddenly realized how badly he wanted to keep that life, how terrified he was of losing it.

As they were led God-knows-where, Bishop's mind raced. How were they going to get out of it?

Rocco was doing his best tough-guy act, but inside? It was a total chaos. His heart was going wild, like it was trying to win some twisted drumming competition. I mean, who wouldn't freak out being blindfolded and driven to who-knows-where?

He kept it together, though. No way he'd let Bishop feel him sweat. One of them had to play it cool.

All Rocco could think about was the note he'd scribbled for Slick. Please, please let him find it. He just hoped to be back for his kid's birthday? 

The van ride felt like it lasted about a million years. Every bump, every turn just cranked up the anxiety. Finally – finally! – they felt the vehicle slow down.

The engine cut out, leaving behind an eerie silence. Then came the sounds – whispers, footsteps crunching on what had to be gravel or dirt. The van door creaked open, letting in a blast of cool air.

This was it. Whatever 'it' was.

"Alright, kiddos. Blindfolds off," a gruff voice announced.

Blinking in the sudden light, Rocco and Bishop found themselves face-to-face with a guy who looked like he'd stepped straight out of a lumberjack convention. His beard was wild enough to hide a small forest, and the bags under his eyes suggested he and sleep hadn't been on speaking terms for a while.

As they stumbled out of the van on wobbly legs, Rocco's jaw dropped. In front of them stood what could only be described as the world's most depressing building. Paint peeled off in sheets, cracks spider-webbed across the walls like some abstract art gone wrong. Nature was doing its best to swallow the place whole, with grass tall enough to hide a small car and trees that seemed to be playing a game of "how well can we conceal an entire facility?"

Rocco's stomach did a backflip. There was only one reason people picked dumps like this for "jobs" – and it wasn't because they were planning a surprise party.

"Welcome to the Clubhouse," Red announced with a flourish that didn't quite match their surroundings. "You'll be our... guests for a few days. Then it's off to your next destination. Once the job's done, you're free. Any questions?"

Rocco raised his hand like they were in some twisted summer camp. "Yeah, what exactly is this 'job' you keep mentioning?"

Red's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nothing too complicated for you fine folks."

Real helpful, dude. Rocco and Bishop shared a look that screamed, "We are so screwed."

Bishop, apparently feeling brave, piped up. "How long is this... job... gonna take?"

"Not long," Red shrugged, his smile more plastic than ever. "Depends on our... clients."

Before anyone could ask what the heck that meant, Red turned to the human grizzly bear they'd met earlier. "Fixer! Get these guys settled. And make sure they're fed. We can't have them looking like zombies when the clients come calling."

"Yes, sir," Fixer rumbled, suddenly all "yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir" to Red.

But when he turned to face the newbies? His eyes swept over them like they were part of the peeling wallpaper – just another bit of background noise in this creep show.

"Follow me," he grunted, already turning away.

The ragtag group of nine, with Rocco and Bishop bringing up the rear, followed Fixer into the belly of the beast. Weirdly, the other seven newbies seemed totally chill, like sketchy job interviews in abandoned factories were just another Tuesday for them. Then again, growing up on Third Street probably made this look like a five-star resort.

As they crossed the threshold, Rocco caught a glimpse of Red's fancy car peeling out of there faster than a cat with its tail on fire. Great. Their only link to the outside world, gone in a cloud of dust.

But once inside this place… it was a total mind-bender.

It was like someone had taken a decent community center and stuffed it into the shell of a horror movie set. People were chowing down on what looked like actual food. A TV blared in one corner, while the click of billiard balls echoed from another. There was even a legit gym setup that wouldn't look out of place in one of those fancy health clubs.

"Alright," Fixer boomed. "First order of business – hand over those phones. You all knew this gig wasn't exactly... kosher. Can't have you snapping selfies or texting someone while on the job. Don't worry, you'll get 'em back. Eventually."

Most of the group didn't even blink, fishing out their phones like they were tossing away old gum wrappers. For the Third Street crew, it was no big deal. Who were they gonna call anyway? It's not like they had a bustling social life back in the 'hood. Their phones were just glorified alarm clocks and the occasional hookup hotline.

Life on Third Street was all about looking out for number one. Friends? Family? Those were luxury items they couldn't afford.

After the grand tour of their new digs (complete with freebies that'd make a hotel jealous), Rocco decided it was time to play detective. He figured the dining area was his best bet. After all, conversation over a meal is always the best.

Rocco loaded up his plate like he was preparing for hibernation – a mountain of mashed potatoes, barbecue ribs that could make a vegetarian weep, and some token veggies.

Scanning the room, he spotted his target – a woman who looked like she'd seen some stuff, probably in her late 30s. Perfect. She had that "I've got stories" vibe written all over her.

Sliding into the seat next to her, Rocco tried to look casual. Just another newbie, definitely not fishing for intel. No sir.

"Man, this food's not half bad," he said, aiming for friendly but cool. "Beats the heck out of my cooking, that's for sure."

The woman glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. Was that amusement or suspicion in her eyes? Hard to tell.

"Hey there!" Rocco chirped, trying to sound as innocent as a lamb in a world of wolves.

The woman eyed him, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Well, hello yourself. Fresh meat, huh?"

"That obvious?" Rocco grinned, shoveling a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. "So, uh, how long have you been living it up here?"

She shrugged, pushing her food around her plate. "Not too long. Few days, maybe? The old crew's already shipped out. Fingers crossed we're next."

Rocco's ears perked up like a curious puppy. "Oh yeah? Any clue what this super-secret job is all about?"

The woman's laugh was as dry as the Sahara. "Kid, I don't ask questions. All I care about is that fat stack of cash they promised. Everything else? Above my pay grade."

Rocco's stomach did a little flip that had nothing to do with the barbecue ribs. These people were clueless – or pretending to be. Either way, he and Bishop were sailing in uncharted waters, and the sharks were circling.

"Wait, hold up," Rocco's fork clattered against his plate. "Weren't you paid before they dragged you to this establishment?"

The woman's laugh could've curdled milk. "Oh, honey. That was just the appetizer. Don't tell me your guy didn't give you the 411? Sounds like you got played, kid."

"Damn that Lucky," Rocco muttered, suddenly feeling like the world's biggest sucker. "I knew his 'good guy' act was too slick to be real."

The table fell into an awkward silence. But if Rocco had been paying attention, he might've noticed the guy a few seats down. Late 20s, looked like he was trying to melt into his chair.

He knew things. Things that made his palms sweat and his stomach churn. He'd overheard the staff whispering about what really happened to the people who got "shipped out." And it wasn't a fun vacation to Disneyland.