My broken down, rusted old VW rolled gingerly through the Eastern districts of Las Vegas, away from the glitter and glamor of Sin-City. The zippo lighter in my left hand clicked open and shut, as my thumb absently ignited its meager flame. The sound of the metallic clang eased my anger only slightly.
4120 Industrial Street was scrawled on a piece of paper in my jagged hand writing. The building itself looked like an old run down industrial warehouse; the likes of which Charlie and me had burned down hundreds of times throughout the various United States.
This one, however, would be different.
This one had Charlie in it!
There were thirty-some cars in the parking lot. To me they were just colorful dots along the grey concrete landscape of the complex.
I stopped the Jetta, and went to the trunk for my utility bag. I closed my hands over a makeshift pipe bomb and flicked a switch. The LED showed green.
“It’s time to light up this hell-hole!” I said.
The first car exploded 10 ft through the air.