“Yeah?” I answer, keeping my eyes on the road.
“I’ve been going through the photos Wells pulled,” he says. His voice is steady, but there’s something careful underneath it.
The photos. The ones that never quite lined up.
“And?” I ask.
“You need to see this in person.”
I tighten my grip on the wheel. “Just tell me.”
“I can’t,” he says. “Not without walking you through how it fits together. I want to show you in person.”
I glance at the clock on the dash. Vin can tell me what people are saying. Maybe Gabe can show me why they’re saying it, so I want to see what he has first. This all has to connect back to whatever the fuck is going down with this fentanyl shipment.
“Where are you?”
“Office.”
“I’m on my way.”
I thought removing the Duvalls from the equation would mean things would stabilize and we would go back to normal. Whatever that is. I’m more interested in running ports than playing defense against someone else’s criminal mess.
I realize now that normal is no longer in the cards. That’s the line for me. Not fentanyl, or money, or reputation.
It’s her safety.
The building comes into view a few minutes later, brick and unremarkable. I pull into the lot and shut the engineoff, sitting there for a moment to collect myself before going in.
I reach under the seat and take the Sig into my hand.
I don’t like needing it, but tonight isn’t about comfort. It’s about contingencies. I secure it at my back and step out into the night.
I push through the door to Gabe’s setup.
It’s tucked into a quiet corner of the operations hub, the kind of space meant for focus, not comfort.
The air smells faintly of gun oil and old coffee. The temperature is a few degrees cooler than the rest of the building. The constant hum of equipment running travels through the exposed brick walls.
Gabe sits at his desk with his prosthetic leg propped against the frame, posture relaxed but attention razor-sharp. His eyes are locked on a monitor filled with grainy images and annotated notes. He doesn’t look up right away.
When he finally turns, his expression is flat and all business. The only tell is the tight set of his jaw, irritation flickering there at being pulled into our business fallout.
He was hired as a logistics manager, not a prison guard or forensic detective.
“You wanted to know what the photos are about,” Gabe says, not as a question. He gestures toward the chair opposite him. “You’re going to want to sit down.”
“I’m fine,” I say, staying where I am. I fold my arms, more to anchor myself than to make a point. “Just tell me.”
Gabe watches me for a beat, then nods once. He turns back to the workstation, turns the screen so I can see it, and brings an image up and enlarges it so I can see it clearly.
I recognize it immediately.
Vin. The man with the birthmark. Two of the Duvalls’ people. All four of them are standing outside a warehouse near the river, caught mid-conversation.
No weapons are drawn, no tension is visible. Just men talking. The kind of photograph that looks harmless until you put it against all of the murders and fallout that have gone down in this city in the last several weeks.
My chest tightens, like it knows to brace itself.
