Several minutes later, the Mustang rolled back into the parking lot of Ash's apartment building.
Ash straightened from the slouched position she'd kept the whole ride, leather creasing as she turned toward him. "So…" She hesitated. "What's next?"
Don didn't answer right away. He eased the car into a spot, killed the engine, then nodded toward the dash.
"Open the glove box."
She did.
Her eyes widened.
Inside sat a revolver—heavy, old-school, steel frame with a long barrel and thick cylinder. Not flashy. Beside it lay a single key, plain.
Ash took the gun first, lifting it with care. The weight surprised her. She rolled it in her palm, checked the chamber by habit.
"Whoa—wait a minute," she said. "Is this thing packing…?"
Don nodded. "Superhuman rounds. But it'll take standard ammo too."
Her brows climbed. She glanced back into the glove box, then down at the floor. "Seriously?"
"There's more under your seat."
She leaned down and pulled out a small black bag. Unzipped it.
