Lighting up a cigarette, I take a drag, then run a hand through my greasy hair. It’s been a long day, I’m due for a shower, and the idea I’m wasting my time to try to … what? Catch any illegal activity?It’s not your job, I argue.
I slide a hand over the leather steering wheel, letting the cracking fabric occupy the silence hovering in the car. My thoughts move to Aoife. She seems respected among the few I’ve met who know her, but she’s so … normal. The corner of my mouth twitches. Pretty sure she doesn’t take herself too seriously, which is refreshing in the world of organized crime. Most leaders demand respect because of their name or roll around in an untouchable armored car with a posse of twenty guards. It’s all about status and symbols. Cutting out people who don’t serve the image you’re trying to portray. The similarity between my family and the crime families is comical.
Not Aoife, though. In the few run-ins I’ve had—or stories I’ve heard—she travels the roads of Boston on her bike and works with law enforcement, openly. Something I’m not sure her father did.
I shake my head, angry I’ve wasted time I could’ve been sleeping or working, sitting out here. But the cartel is here, and the Mob. The little I know about Aoife and her father, I know they wouldn’t work with that scum. It’s those stupid wide blue eyes in pain that keep me looming over steel towers under harsh pools of piss-colored lights.
I blow my smoke out the window, watching it curl and drift into nothing. When my cigarette is gone, so am I. This is stupid; I’m only fueling my family’s thoughts.
“You’re a detective, Grayson. You spend your days chasing murderers and drug dealers, breathing in the worst this world has to offer—and you think that makes you a good influence? You walk in here reeking of smoke, arms covered in ink, and expect us to hand over our daughter like it’s nothing. When’s the last time you’ve been to Mass? Kim says you need to change before you can be around our daughter.”
The last words my brother said to me shouldn’t sting. I’d heard them before. When I told my parents I was going into law enforcement, I thought they’d be excited. Instead, they were disappointed I wasn’t following in my father’s footsteps. They mask it, of course, in some controlled, self-righteous, holy virtue, like they’ve been called to pluck me out of the gutter. Except I didn’t fall into some gutter. I didn’t run off and wreck my life.I’mnot the drug dealer.I’mnot the murderer. Yet, they don’t see purpose in it.
My fingers tighten on the wheel, and I toss the butt of my cigarette out onto the ground.Better go to confession for that one. But as I reach to crank the car, movement morphs out of the shadows behind a tall stack of containers. I lean forward, my breath fogging the front windshield as I count the humanoid figures lurking between the rows. Seven. I count seven.
Huh.
I fire off a text to Reed with my location. I’m off the clock, but it seems like the prudent thing to do. I reach down and thumb open the center console where I dumped my gun. Wrapping my fingers around the grip of the Glock, I do a quick check, then rack it once, sliding it into my holster on my hip. I glance at the badge in the cupholder with my pack of cigarettes yet leave it.
Quietly, I crack open my car door and climb out, easing it shut until it latches without a sound. Hunched over, I creep along the fence line until I find the gap I spotted earlier and squeeze through. The metal grabs at my jacket, and the oil stench is thicker in the outside air, but I make it through—trespassing for sure. I straighten, scanning the empty yard, then follow the quiet sound of a rumbling motorcycle.Hell.
I ghost across the lot, keeping to the shadows as best I can. I follow the purr of the bike until it shuts off, and voices echo instead. My palm skims the cold steel, and I crouch low, finally coming upon two matte-black vans idling backed up to a container, doors open.
Two dockworkers, dressed in their orange vests and hard hats, waste no time offloading several crates from the shipping container into the van’s cargo bay. They don’t check a shipping manifest, nor do they scan anything.
I narrow my focus, trying to get a good look at any information stamped on the crates, but I can’t make it out from here. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I move closer. Then I hear her.
“Be careful with that. We don’t pay you thousands to toss it into the van like you’re the local delivery company. Hold up. Let me check that one. It looks light.”
Aoife. I sigh and screw my jaw tight.
I finally glimpse her. She’s in all black bottoms and a green leather jacket, which matches the dark green bandana tied into a bow around her neck. Her blonde locks hang loose beyondher shoulders, and the dim yellow lights from the container yard highlight their strawberry hue. She smiles at one of the dockworkers, and the chill in my bones thaws a little.
A dockworker mumbles something, and she tsks at him. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to. Here you go. Two grand for your trouble.” She hands him a wad of cash, and the man takes it, smells it, then offers her a toothy grin. Though as I watch him, he keeps glancing around, eyes darting between the containers.
“Aoife, we need to move on,” one of her men says. It might be the man from outside her office. Ronan.
Suddenly, there’s movement to my left. The shadowed figures creep closer, and I snap back to look at Aoife discussing something and unaware. Shit. I shouldn’t get involved, for more reasons than the obvious, but I watch her smile, her deceivingly innocent expression, and I?—
I step out of the shadows, and one of her men draws a weapon, training it on me. “Get down!”
“Aoife, it’s me. Grayson.” I lift both hands, despite the urge to pull my gun.
Her brow dips. “Grayson?”
I look over my shoulder, and Ronan loses it. “Cops! You brought the cops!”
I shake my head, but there’s no time to explain. Footsteps crack open the silent night as men with black ski masks fan out with a practiced precision. I unholster my weapon and run toward Aoife.
“Stand down, Ronan!” Aoife yells.
I reach her, yanking her arm as the first shot is fired. I can’t tell if it was Ronan or one of the seven men, but I don’t wait to find out. I dive behind the open rear doors of the van, hauling Aoife with me. Two of her men also follow, wedging her between them.
She spits a curse as more shots erupt, the thunderous rapid fire of bullets tearing into the metal with a sickeningthud-thud-thud. More hammer the metal containers behind us.
“What are you doing here?” she yells over the gunfire. Her men fire back round after round, but the return shots come back more potent.
“There was chatter about a deal going down at the terminal.” I cringe as the half-truth escapes my lips. Is that what I’m doing here?
