* * *
The sun had barely set when the first little thing went wrong for Diaz.
Spade sat on the couch later, laptop open, feet up on the coffee table.I sprawled sideways with my head in Kane’s lap, half-watching some mindless show, half-listening to the click of keys.
Spade’s breath hitched.
“What?”I asked, lifting my head.
He grinned, feral.“Construction company just had an unexpected audit scheduled,” he said.“City inspector found ‘irregularities’ on three permits.Work stopped.Money frozen until someone sorts it out.That someone is not going to be Diaz tonight.”
“That fast?”I asked.
“I’ve been laying groundwork for days,” he said.“Roth just gave me the last numbers I needed.Dominoes are already wobbling.”
Kane’s fingers carded through my hair.“One down,” he said.“A few hundred to go.”
I rested my head back on his leg and closed my eyes for a second.I didn’t know yet how this story would end.How much blood it would take.How many nights like this we’d have before the storm really hit.But chapter by chapter, piece by piece, Diaz’s world shrank.
My fear didn’t vanish.It just stopped owning every step.
That was enough for now.
Chapter Fourteen
Kane
Roth stayed dead.
Diaz did not.
The world kept turning, which felt rude.
Three days after we put Roth in the ground, the TV over the bar started talking about my war.
“… unnamed sources within the department say this operation is part of a larger investigation into suspected cartel-linked businesses in the metro area…”
I wiped circles behind the counter, my hand moving over the same clean patch of wood while a bottle of Jack waited at my elbow.Ten minutes of polishing had accomplished nothing except giving me something to do with my hands while my attention fixed on the screen.
On the screen, grainy footage played.Cop cars.Flashing lights.Yellow tape.A bar front I recognized even before the name scrolled along the bottom.Rusty Nail.
The picture jerked as the camera guy zoomed in.I watched officers move in and out.Box after box carried into vans.Faces blurred.Hands cuffed.
“One of the establishments raided today was this bar in the Riverfront district,” the reporter said.“Neighbors say they suspected drug activity for years.Federal agents declined to comment directly on the investigation but did say…”
Her voice faded under the rush in my ears.
Spade stood at the end of the bar, phone in hand, eyes on the screen.A hint of smug curled his mouth.
“Your handiwork?”I asked.
He shrugged.“Hanley’s,” he said.“I just gave him the thread.He did the rest.”
“Jason’s thread,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.“And Jade’s.”
Atilla sat at a table nearby, coffee instead of beer in his hand, eyes narrow.“Any mention of Diaz’s name?”he asked.
