“Ask me tomorrow.”
He almost smiled. “Fair enough.”
Six hours. Then we’d go underground and finish what Dre started.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The dock district smelled like low tide and diesel fuel and the rot of things that had been wet too long and would never fully dry.
Jack parked the surveillance van on a side street two blocks from the fish processing plant, tucked between a boarded-up marine supply shop and a dumpster that had seen better decades. Derby was already inside, headset on, three monitors glowing in front of him with feeds from the traffic cameras and the marina security system Margot had tapped into. Doug sat beside him with his laptop open, Margot’s interface pulsing a steady blue. The screens threw just enough light to turn their faces into something out of a Caravaggio painting, all sharp angles and deep shadows, the rest of the van swallowed in darkness.
I climbed in last and pulled the rear doors shut behind me.
The van was hot despite the evening. It was a heat that lived in metal and held on long after the sun went down, pressing close against the skin, mixing with the smell of electronics and coffee and the nervous sweat of people who were about to do something that couldn’t be undone. I settled onto the bench between a case of medical supplies and a radio charger, pressed my back against the wall, and waited.
Waiting was always the worst part.
Through the monitors I could see the dock district settling in. A few cars moved along the waterfront road, headlights sweeping across the old brick façades. The fish processing plant sat dark and still at the end of the block, its loading dock facing the water, the corrugated-steel walls giving away nothing. If you didn’t know what was underneath it, you’d drive past without a second glance.
But they were down there. Margot had confirmed it an hour ago, cell signals clustering around the coordinates from T-Bone’s shoe. Not just burner phones. Every kind of signal a crowd of people carried without thinking about it—smartphones, smartwatches, fitness trackers, Bluetooth earbuds pinging their paired devices. The digital noise of a hundred bodies packed into a space that was supposed to be empty.
“Signal density’s still climbing,” Doug said, his face lit blue by Margot’s display. “She’s reading north of a hundred and fifty unique devices now. That crowd’s still growing.”
“Beckwith?” Jack’s voice came through the radio, low and clear.
Doug checked the screen. “His department phone pinged the tower on Dock Street eight minutes ago. He’s inside.”
“Copy.”
A hundred and fifty people underground. Fighters, spectators, bookmakers, security. And one deputy sheriff who’d sold his badge to the man who’d ordered Dre’s execution. All of them packed into tunnels that were three hundred years old, with two exits and a SWAT team about to come through the ceiling.
“SWAT is staged,” Derby said, one hand on his headset. “Danforth confirms all units in position. Awaiting go.”
I checked my watch. Ten twenty-eight.
Jack was at the secondary access point with Martinez, Colburn, and a team of four. Hops and Cheek had the river exit. Chen, Riley, Plank, and Walters held the perimeter.
Everyone in place. Everyone waiting for the word.
The minutes crawled. I could hear Derby breathing beside me, slow and measured. Doug’s fingers hovered over his keyboard. On the monitor, the dock district was quiet and still, the streetlights throwing yellow pools on empty asphalt, and the only movement was a cat picking its way along the top of a chain-link fence two blocks down.
Ten thirty.
Doug’s hand went up.
“Movement,” he said. “Southwest corner. Someone’s on foot.”
I leaned forward. On the leftmost monitor, a figure had materialized from the shadows between two warehouse buildings, moving parallel to our street. Male, stocky build, dark jacket. He walked with the unhurried purpose of someone doing a job he’d done many times before, checking sight lines, scanning parked vehicles, and searching for anything that didn’t belong.
A scout. Stavros had people watching the perimeter.
“He’s heading our way,” Doug said. His voice had gone flat, stripped of everything except information.
“Kill the screens,” Derby said.
Doug hit a key and the monitors went black. The van plunged into darkness so complete I couldn’t see my own hands. The only light was a hair-thin line leaking under the rear door, the distant glow of a streetlamp two buildings down, barely enough to find the outline of Derby’s shoulder beside me.
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
