Ron’s been around for as long as I can remember. He’s the guy who’ll get rid of your car at three in the morning and pretend he didn’t notice the blood in the backseat as long as the money’s good. He’s also the guy who knows better than to double-cross us.
Which means either Ron got stupid, or someone paid him enough to pretend he did.
Bishop doesn’t slow at the gate. Gravel pops under the tires as we pass a forklift with one broken prong, a Camry with its hood peeled back like a sardine can, and a pit bull that barely lifts its head from the oil-stained dirt.
The office door bangs open before we even stop. Ron’s already there, wiping blackened hands on a rag that was probably white once. His work shirt has a tear at the elbow, and his gray hair sticks up where he’s been running his fingers through it. When he spots us, his shoulders hunch forward an inch.
Bishop kills the engine. We unfold from the car in perfect synchronization, like a three-headed creature rising. Ron’s false smile flickers, then fades.
“Calloway?” he calls, forcing a smile that lands wrong. “What can I do ya for?”
Bishop’s keys disappear into his pocket with a soft jingle. “Just checking in, making sure we’re still good.”
Ron’s forehead creases. “Course we are.”
Cruz drifts right, hands in pockets, eyes scanning the yard like he’s considering buying the place. Nothing about him suggests danger—not the loose shoulders or the casual pace. But I’ve seen him break a man’s arm with that same relaxed posture, that same mild expression.
I position myself at Bishop’s left flank, close enough that Ron would have to go through one of us to get anywhere. Not that he’s ever tried to run before. But these days, I’m learning that what people have never done before doesn’t mean shit about what they’ll do next.
Ron’s gaze darts between us, his fingers tightening around the grease-blackened rag. “Something wrong?”
Bishop shifts his weight forward, just enough to make Ron step back. “That’s what we came to ask you.”
Ron forces a laugh that dies halfway. “Everything’s good—great.”
“You sure?” Cruz asks.
“Your ma and I have been working together for some twenty-odd years now.” He wipes his palms on the rag again.
I shift my weight, gravel crunching under my boot. “Then why are we hearing you’re working with another crew?”
The rag twists between his fingers, winding tighter until his knuckles pale. “You must’ve heard wrong.”
Cruz takes a single step to the right, blocking Ron’s sightline to the office. “You calling my brother a liar?”
“No—Christ—” Ron’s shoulders hunch. “No. No, I wouldn’t do that. I’m not—I’m not working with another crew.”
I scan the yard. “Heard you got a Mack truck from some new faces.”
Ron’s throat works. A bead of sweat traces his temple despite the cool air. “Yeah. Walked in the yard with cash.”
“How much?” Bishop asks. The question hangs between us.
“Twenty-five,” Ron mutters, his gaze darting to the dirt.
I rock back on my heels with a low whistle. “Twenty-five grand.” That’s more than twice what we’ve paid him to take care of something for us. I meet Bishop’s gaze and arch a brow.
“That didn’t raise any red flags for you, Ron?” Cruz drawls.
Ron’s gaze skitters away, landing on the pit bull still sprawled in the dirt. His silence stretches thin.
“You in bad shape, Ron?” I tilt my head, studying the expression on his face and trying to see what he’s hiding.
Bishop steps closer, hands in pockets like we’re just catching up. His shadow swallows Ron whole. “If you needed help, all you had to do was ask. Isn’t that what a twenty-year friendship means?”
Ron’s throat works visibly, his gaze darting between the three of us like a cornered animal searching for escape. His fingers rake across three days of stubble. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Like what?” Cruz’s voice is velvet-soft.
