He shook his head. “They’re dead, but the second wave will be here any second. We need to move, now.”
14
Razorback was fucking worried, and he didn’t get fucking worried very often. DeGrey was on the phone. He’d taken the Livingston woman to his home upstate, but they’d been ambushed by God-knows-who, leaving him to fend for himself against four—count them, four—fucking tangoes.
Razorback pointed the microphone end of his cell phone toward the ceiling, talking to Mooch quietly as DeGrey gave him the details. “I need Sloan, Trace, and Champion to go wheels up, STAT. DeGrey needs backup.”
“I need backup,” DeGrey said in his ear.
Razorback pulled the mic back to his mouth. “Already on it.”
Cleats pushed into the situation room, a large manilla envelope in his hand. “I got the photos from the printer.”
Moto jumped up from his perch at a computer terminal across the room. “Give them here,” he said, nodding to Razorback as he took the envelope and extracted what was inside. “I’ll scan them so we can enhance the photos digitally.”
Mooch appeared and took several steps toward Razorback, the look on his heavily pocked face clearly saying there was a problem. Razorback lifted his brows toward the younger man.
“Champion isn’t back from the island. He took the bird to a meeting in the Hamptons with Jax.”
Razorback nodded once. “Get him on the horn. Tell him to fly like the devil himself is chasing him back here, you got that?”
Mooch nodded, jogging away.
Gavin was talking. “…to the Adirondacks.”
“Good idea. I’m sending three men your way in the next hour. They just might beat you there.” He’d watched as Moto scanned in the photos, then he followed the tech wizard back to his computer station. “Moto’s pulling up the photos now.” A series of black and white images populated the screen. Razorback’s jaw hardened. “I’ll let you know if we find anything interesting. Be safe, Brother.” He disconnected the call, his eyes fixed to the shifting images on the monitor.
His stomach was bubbling with anxiety, not unlike the way he felt when his stepdaughter missed curfew. She might not be his flesh and blood daughter, but there was a bond there that was unmistakable, and as sensitive as an exposed nerve.
The fact that he was equating his HERO Force team with his daughter was a testament to his increasing age and sentimentality. Not that long ago, he didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. Now, it seemed, he cared far too much about far too many people—a dangerous position to be in for someone who lacked control over a goddamn thing. “I don’t like this one fucking bit,” he grumbled under his breath.
Moto clicked and scrolled, the unfocused background of the image on his desktop slowly becoming sharper with his actions. “DeGrey’s a strong soldier. He’ll hold them off until backup gets there.”
Razorback grunted noncommittally. He hoped that was true. It was clear the woman and baby were important to Gavin, likely as important as Jackie and Salina were to him. That kind of importance put everything on the line, but it also held the potential to blind you to things you would otherwise see. A man who had everything to lose wasn’t a better fighter than the one who had nothing to lose. Perhaps just the opposite.
Not a goddamn thing I can do about it.
He narrowed his eyes as the dark form of a figure in the distance come into focus. The image wasn’t clear—likely it could never be perfectly clear, given the camera’s settings—but it was just clear enough to captivate Razorback’s attention. They were looking at the portrait of a murderer, who now threatened one of his own HERO Force men. “C’mon, you son of bitch,” he said under his breath. “Give me something.”
Moto shook his head. “I can’t create a face where there’s only a blurred glob.”
“Work your magic, Moto. I have faith in you, boy.” Razorback reminded himself of Mac, the older man who’d recently handed off control of HERO Force New York to Razorback. There were worse men he could turn into in his old age, he supposed. Staring over Moto’s shoulder was a pointless endeavor. He started to pace.
Cleats had returned to his desk, but now he spoke up. “I’ve got something on the dead detective from Central Park. He was working on the organized crime control bureau’s narcotics task force. Maybe he got too close to something.”
Razorback narrowed his eyes. “How many cops are on that task force?”
“Almost a hundred all together,” said Moto, whose exceptionally good memory had proven a treasure trove of useless information over the years. “Not sure how many of them are on narcotics.”
Razorback reached the end of the room and turned around, heading back toward Moto’s workstation. He narrowed his eyes at the screen once more. “What the hell is that?” he asked, pointing out a light area near the shooter’s waist.
“Could be anything,” said Moto. “A belt buckle. Something light colored in his hand.”
“It’s off to the side, almost like it’s on his hip,” said Razorback, leaning in to get a better look.
Cleats come over to join him. “Am I crazy, or is he wearing a sport coat?”
“Blazer or some shit,” agreed Razorback.
