GRAYSON
“Reed!” I call for him again, glancing at the time on my phone. I need to get to O’Brien’s. I want to talk to Aoife. I couldn’t sleep last night. The idea she thinks I hate her … I’m not sure why I let the stress of yesterday’s knowledge impact how I treated her. It was uncalled for. I’ve gotten to know Aoife, and she isn’t a malicious delinquent. Calculated, yes. Learning how to handle her organization that does more to keep order for the city than prey on it, certainly. I can’t imagine how Boston would look if the Yakuza, Cosa Nostra, or Albanians decided it was theirs for the taking. The Irish is the deterrent in all this—the O’Donnell family. Part of me wishes I could share in that.
The waterfront and seaport in South Boston are full of older storm drains and abandoned tunnels under warehouses. I stand here looking around where Reed told me to meet him, but there’s nothing. Winter wraps the streets and the alleyway leading to the entrance of the run-down store I’m standing in front of. Mostly it’s a dirty snow and slush pile pooling in the rutted asphalt. The wind is damp across my cheeks and the cold bone-chilling, but the sun attempts to peek around the gray clouds capping the sky.
Boots crunching on icy snow prompt me to turn.
“Grayson. Thanks for meeting me. And thanks for the car.”
I nod, remembering the cost of the Uber to get here, and hope this better be good. “What are we doing here?”
He swallows. “The crime families shouldn’t run things. Just like you said, right?”
I tilt my head to study him. He’s dripping with sweat.
“Follow me,” he says. He turns and walks the rest of the way down the alley toward a rusted-over door, open and barely hanging on the hinges. It leads into a cavernous room, low ceilings with bricks sweating moisture that’s frozen to the façade. Rusted pipes drip above us, the puddles making the concrete tunnel we’re walking in slippery. Graffiti marks the walls: gangs, political slogans, crude gestures. The smell of mildew and iron clings to the inside of my nose, and I sniff, trying to relieve the rancid scent.
Reed moves briskly ahead toward a dead end, and when I’m about to ask what the deal is, he crouches toward a metal grate in the floor. The faint sound of Christmas music echoes from beneath. “Reed, what the hell, man?” Annoyed, I hesitate. I don’t want to waste any more time.
He turns, holding a finger to his lips. I glare at him, but he smirks and shuffles to open the grate. Long, narrow metal steps descend into a confined space with only bare bulbs to light the way. Reed turns, steps down, and I follow. The music gets louder, a rock version of “Carol of the Bells” booming, and … screams?
Shadows stretch along the walls, and I jump the final step, turning toward a gun pointed straight at my head.
My heart leaps into my throat.
Aoife. I dart to move, but Reed mirrors my steps, keeping the gun in my face. My hand reaches for my weapon.
“Not a good idea,” he says.
“Grayson!” Aoife yells, sprawled out on a metal table. Her wrists and ankles are locked in heavy chains as she struggles to lift her head to look at me. Tears well in her eyes as they rake over my body. When she finally makes it to my shoes, she sighs in relief. Was she worried I’m hurt?
“Reed,” I grind out. “Please don’t tell me you did this?”
He frowns. “Why not? You said it yourself, she has too much power. The leaders are always hard to track and drag around with their guards and personnel, but Miss O’Donnell here was ripe for the picking. She sat for hours at the docks.”
Aoife scoffs. “Don’t act so proud. You pretended to be Grayson. Do you even smoke?”
A rickety table sits catty-corner, scattered with tools and vials of something. I explore the tiny spot as much as possible, trying to concoct a plan. Reed’s been my partner for years. Did I miss the signs?
The thought alone knots my stomach so tight it wrings the breath from my lungs. She doesn’t belong here. I can’t let him touch her. Did my comments skew his decision? My fist twitches, begging to be thrown through something. Through him. Blood roars in my ears.
“Reed …” I can’t stop staring at her. “This isn’t the way.”
“Please, you know as well as I do this woman has the entire city wrapped around her pinky finger.”
A trickle of water whispers in the wall behind me, and I weigh my options. No one knows we’re here. I’m not sure Aoife’s being tracked, considering Reed checked out my car last night and said that’s when he picked her up. The idea someone is coming wanes along with any hope. If I continue to push back, he’ll either shoot me and proceed with her, or shoot her just to shut me up.
My gaze flicks to Aoife once more, her wide eyes unblinking and bouncing between us. “Yeah. Yeah, Reed. She does.”
Her stare narrows, and a tear clinging suspended at the corner of her eye rolls down her temple before she turns away from me. Her arms slow and fall to the metal table.
I drop my hand from my holster and roll my shoulders, bringing my attention back to Reed.
“See, I told you. We can do this together. We’ve always been called in to solve the crimes, but we can finally be the ones to prevent thembeforewe’re called in for an investigation.” He doesn’t remove his gun from its hovered position in front of my chest, but he backs up, a conceited smile curling his lips.
I follow him toward his workbench, keeping my attention on the barrel of his gun. I calculate if I could rip it away when his focus deviates from me.
“I’ve filled the syringe already. You can watch me inject it.” He wipes his forehead, the beads of sweat splashing to the floor.
