“How about a coven of Voodoo practitioners—or whatever that’s called.”
Ethan didn’t know.
“We don’t have anything forensically, thanks to the ocean and what we’ve already discovered. Sugar on the skin, herbs, and chaos.”
That said it all.
They’d been boned again forensically.
Greyson went there.
“Why does this feel mob-y?” he asked. “Not that I’m a mob pro, but why do I feel like all the broken bones are the clue that we need to focus on? It’s the other thing that’s out of place, other than someone pointing us as far from a logical killer as possible.”
Gene glanced over.
He’d not considered that.
“A mob hit?” he asked.
Greyson wasn’t sure.
“I’m not saying that, but more so, along with what Ethan was saying. This feels like the ritualistic shit is to cover up the actual shit. Who do we know would break some bones, and dump a body but a mobster? I’m going with someone who doesn’t really know how to do this perfectly, and that screams mob. Does this place have them?”
That was a good question.
Heading to the door, Ethan stuck his head out, and whistled. When he did, one of the Feds headed his way.
“Yeah?” Agent Miguel Crespo Gonzales asked, tucking his pen behind his ear. “You needed me?”
He pointed.
“Have a seat.”
The man looked twitchy, and Greyson was pretty sure he knew why. Before, he was auditing files, and the whole staff was getting worried.
There was incompetence here.
So.
Much.
Incompetence.
Now, they just had to see how deep it went before this information was sent back to Gabe. There was no doubt why he was here.
And it was to do that and babysit Blackhawk and Cantrell.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
Gene was to the point.
“What do you know about the mob on this island?” he asked, and the man looked much calmer.
They all noticed it.
“That it’s there, but as long as they keep out of our way, we don’t bust their balls. There’s not enough of us to hold down that monster. So, we all just stay in our lanes.”
What?
