“I know she did.”
Because my mother is careful.
Careful enough to create distance.
Careful enough to make this look like me.
I straighten slowly and look out the window toward the mountains.
“Laney,” I say under my breath.
“Hold on.”
6
Saint
The dead man’s gun bothers me.
Not because he had one.
Because of what he had.
Havoc turns the weapon slowly in his hands beneath the bright light over the bar.
“This isn’t Rossi work.”
Trigger looks up from the laptop.
“You sure?”
Havoc taps the side of the weapon.
“Positive.”
He points to the serial grind pattern.
“Rossi people use European loadouts. Italian imports. Clean, tight supply chains.”
He sets the gun on the table.
“This is U.S. contractor gear.”
Wolf frowns.
“So not mafia?”
“Not his,” Havoc says.
That’s the first crack.
And I don’t like cracks.
Trigger leans back in his chair.
“Could still be Marco outsourcing.”
“Could be,” Havoc admits.
