Prologue
Eight Months Ago
Jasper
The scent of stale coffee is about to do me in. That and Schaffer’s constant crunching. Who the fuck brings Cheetos on a stakeout? I’m gonna need to get my car detailed after this. Half the dashboard is covered in neon orange dust.
“This is a fuckin’ waste of time,” Schaffer grumbles. “It’s 2:00 a.m. We’ve been out here for three hours. Your C.I. was wrong. The Marquez gang ain’t selling out of a place like this.”
“He’s solid. How the hell do you think Urbanski and I made that bust last week? It was Carter’s intel that led us to that nightclub. He’s a goddamn sure thing.”
The radio squawks once, and Urbanski’s voice fills the car. “Got movement on the south side of the building. Three white males, one with a backpack.”
“Keep ‘em in your sights. We’re on our way.” I check my SIG while Schaffer crumples up the bag of Cheetos and shoves it under the seat. He pulls a fucking wet wipe out of the pocket of his blazer and tears it open. “Are you shitting me? Urbanski is on his own out there.”
“I’m faster than a duck on a June bug on my worst day,” he says with a cocky smile.
“Then get a move on.” I’m out of the car before he can make another smart-ass remark and halfway around the old warehouse in thirty seconds. Schaffer’s light footsteps follow quickly. Maybe he ain’t as slow as I feared.
Three loud pops sound from inside the building. I press myself to the wall, Schaffer at my side. “Dispatch, shots fired at 146th and Grand. Urbanski, Schaffer, and Blade on scene. Send backup!”
I motion for Schaffer to stick close. Where the fuck is Urbanski? We hit the door on the south side together, Schaffer yanking it open while I check for hostiles. Sweeping my gaze across the large space, I clock a handful of sleeping bags against one wall—along with a couple of shopping carts. Squatters lookin’ for somewhere to stay warm.
Men and women huddle together while three guys hide behind a stack of pallets across the building, shooting at anything that moves. From the east door, Urbanski fires back. One of the asshole’s bullets hits something metal close to the squatters. A man starts coughing, followed by another. “Gas!” one of them shouts.
“Get out! Move! Vienes por aquí. Corres!” I shout. Several shots ping off the concrete wall to my left. These idiots are going to get us all killed. “Hold your fire! You hit a fucking gas line! No dispares!”
“Fuck you!” a man shouts from the pallets before sending another dozen bullets my way.
Urbanski zig-zags through the warehouse, reaching the group huddled together against the wall in under ten seconds. “Go, go, go!” His voice turns hoarse. “Jas! The shutoff valve’s stuck!”
“Keep ‘em busy,” Schaffer hisses in my ear. “I’ll help Jonas.”
Busy? With what? The Texas Two-Step? If I keep shooting, I could bring the whole goddamn building down. Concrete flies off the wall and slices my cheek. “You assholes are gonna die if you don’t cut that shit out!”
One of them says something I can’t make out over all the coughing and crying coming from the opposite side of the warehouse. Schaffer, Urbanski, and the dozen or so squatters are almost clear.
“Fucking pig!”
A burst of gunfire echoes in the dimly lit space. My ears pop. Heat washes over me. The roar is so loud, I feel it in every cell of my body. Flames lick along the ceiling.
Fuck. I’m on my back, staring up at the support beams high above me. Another dozen sharp reports pierce through the dull hum in my ears—my hearing’s shot. Everything sounds like it’s under water.
Those jack-offs are still shootin’.
Rolling onto my side, I fire toward where I think they are. Again and again until I run out of bullets. One of them staggers out from behind the pallets and collapses.
“Jas!”
Urbanski. Fuck, he sounds bad. Or maybe that’s my busted eardrums. I try to get up, but my right leg won’t hold my weight. The pain is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. White hot and so deep, it cuts me in two.
I hit the ground. Bones crunch in my thigh. My palms are slick with blood. A couple of inches at a time, I lurch forward on my hands and knees. “Comin’. Hold…on!”
My vision’s hazy. Everything to my right is dark as fuck. I reach Urbanski’s side, as he starts coughing. A sharp piece of metal sticks out of his abdomen. Blood stains his lips. The side of his face is burned almost down to his cheekbone. “Did they…get out…?” he rasps.
I struggle to get close enough to hold his hand. He’s dead. He knows it. It’s in his eyes. The way the light’s fading. The blown pupils. And the heartache in his voice.
I strain to locate Schaffer. To find any evidence of the squatters. “They’re out. Stay with me, idiot. Backup is on the way.”
