He walked outside, letting the door shut on her words. Stupid kid. Stupid, stupid kid.
And who would make sure nothing happened to that kid? Huh? A kid like that, stupid enough to put one of those things in her lip, wouldn’t know how to take care of herself.
Focus.
The library. He turned a half circle, noticed the to-go box of food in his hand, got a whiff of greasy steam, and dropped it in the nearest trash can on a wave of nausea. The library was in a tiny building that looked old, he remembered, over by the tracks on Railroad Avenue. He headed that way, feeling sharper. On a mission.
Inside, the woman behind the counter lifted her brows at him but didn’t say a word when he settled in front of one of the computers.
ATF Agent Nikolai Breadthwaite, he typed into the Google search bar, his shoulders and back tense to the point of pain.
Only a few hits appeared, all recent news pieces covering Bread’s accident. Clay tried to loosen his shoulders, but it felt like the tension was the only thing holding his bones together.
There was one photo, the same one over and over, released only after his death, no doubt. It was his official ATF ID shot. Bread was like him—eternally undercover. Had been like him. Clay had seen that badge. He’d made fun of Bread in the shot, called him a googly-eyed motherfucker. There wouldn’t be any more photos now. Because Bread was dead.
Clay stifled a laugh. Not the time to lose his shit. Again.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Only an insider could’ve figured out where Bread had been placed as he awaited trial. Only an insider could’ve gotten to him. Somebody with links to DOJ at the very least.
After half an hour spent sifting through articles that all said pretty much the same thing, he leaned back.
An accident, they said. But Clay knew it was bullshit. He pulled out his phone, ready to call Tyler, but stopped when the woman behind the counter cleared her throat.
Right. Library.
After shutting everything down and deleting the browsing history, he limped back outside, into the too-bright day. He wouldn’t call Tyler. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t reach out at all, especially now that the only other guy who’d known what Clay knew was dead. The only other person who could testify. His safety depended on no one finding out where the hell he was. He was supposed to check in with McGovern, but he wouldn’t. Not if shit was going down like this.
Fuck. Maybe he should leave, go farther south?
No. He wasn’t running. He’d stay here, get these piece-of-shit tattoos removed, and wait. Because fuck if he’d become a fugitive. He was the law, for Christ’s sake, not the one on the run.
He stood up straighter, pulled his glasses back down over his eyes, and turned in a half circle.
The town sat, quiet and quaint. Hot and humid as hell. The buzz of summer insects tickled the back of his brain.
What should he do now? Get in touch with Tyler after all? No, Tyler might have a tap on his line. They might be watching him. What about McGovern? Could she be the rat? Weirder things had happened. She had family, which made her prime picking for ruthless bastards like the Sultans.
But no, she was the biggest stick-in-the-mud, straight-arrow agent he’d ever seen. He didn’t believe she could turn for a moment. Besides, she’d been the one who’d fought for him with the big guys, the one who’d understood that to be truly undercover, you had to live like your quarry. She got that. Not her.
Who the fuck was it?
Someone had given them his name the night of the raid. Some fucker had told the Sultans he was a cop and set them on his ass in ways nobody could’ve fucking imagined. Ape calling him in back, Jam and the others watching as Ape did his eyes, then knuckles, branding him.
Handles’s out, but when he gets back, you’re a dead man. Those fucking words.
Then the needle against his face, his lids screwed shut against Ape’s threat of popping his eyeballs with it.
Here, in sweet, innocent Blackwood, Clay stood and breathed, waited, watched as a couple in pink and white emerged from an antique place, arm in arm, and moved along the sidewalk to the ladies’ dress shop next door.
Leafy green trees lined both sides of the street, shading the red brick and white clapboard facades of one cutesy place after another—coffee shop, more goddamned antiques, the diner he’d always associate with Bread’s death. Beyond that, an indent and that pub—the Nook.
A drink. Yeah. He’d go for a drink. Anything to obliterate the guilt at being the last one standing—and the knowledge that if he fell, there’d be nobody left to make those bastards pay.
Clay Navarro had never in his life felt quite so alone.
* * *
