Right now, assholes, the shit they sold, and even Mr. DEA didn’t matter. Lucky trudged through the building as fast as his beat-up body allowed.
He strained to make out voices, recognize a familiar face in shadowy rooms, heart falling with each,Nope, not him.
Finally, a familiar drawl yanked Lucky toward the conference room, followed by Mr. DEA. Bo made eye contact while deep in discussion with an officer. Hallelujah! Closing his eyes, Lucky blew out a breath. Alive. Still alive.
If not for the roomful of people, he would happily check Bo head to toe for injuries.
“Umm… Harrison? You all right?”
Lucky opened his eyes to find Special Agent Gaskins staring down at him.
“Yeah. Just tired. It’s been a rough few hours.”
“I’ll bet.” Gaskins tugged on rubber gloves from a box on the table, lifted a packet from the floor, and dropped the instrument of death into a zip-close bag. “I can’t understand why people do this horror.”
“Some assholes mix stronger stuff into heroin.” Made the heroin more potent, but in the end shot the dealers in the foot by killing their clientele. Which might have happened to the woman Bristol allegedly sold to.
The guy nodded. “First started coming into this area about four months ago. We’ve had twelve overdoses since then. I’d love to believe this operation supplied them all, but I’ve never been much of an optimist. What say we get out of here?” the first DEA man Lucky’d met in a long time who didn’t insult him said.
“I’m game.”
“Thought you might be. Care to drive the BMW back to the station?”
His brother’s BMW. Bought with ill-gotten gains, though Lucky had yet to figure out how much profit Bristol made and for what. So far all he’d seen tonight was enough drugs for minor deals, and acting as a cab driver. Flunky work alone didn’t finance Bristol’s lifestyle. And he’d supplied his basement operation somehow. “I’d really rather not.”
“Don’t blame you. I’ll get one of my men. You can ride with me.”
Lucky followed behind the man, too tired to argue, with a dull throbbing around his heart—and in his side.
Gaskins opened the car door for Lucky. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your help. And if it’s any consolation, I’m sorry about your brother.”
“Yeah, me too.” And not just Bristol. The whole situation likely fucked with Daytona’s head, not to mention the hell Mama went through. Or Charlotte.
Breath whooshed out of Lucky when Bo stood silhouetted on the loading dock. Safe. Still safe. Bo nodded once and returned inside the building.
Right. Still on a case. Lucky’d done his task.
He needed his family, now more than ever, with every fiber of his being. “After we finish the formalities, can I get a ride up to my parents’ farm?”
“It can be arranged.”
Time to officially reenter the Lucklighter clan.
Chapter Twenty-five
Few cars sat in the police station parking lot at barely past sunrise. The pink horizon gave way to blue skies, dotted with a cloud or two, the day shaping up to be a warm one.
With any luck, Lucky would soon be snug in a bed, and not alone, sleeping and loving his way through the heat. But no, he couldn’t lose himself in the wonders of sex and block out all the painful shit in his life.
No need to keep secrets anymore. The whole family would soon know what happened to Bristol. The whole fucked up story.
His perch by Bo’s Durango, parked near the door, gave him clear view of anyone coming or leaving. No chance of Bo getting away without saying goodbye.
A uniformed officer nodded on his way to the steps leading to the station’s front door, a fast food bag in his hand wafting the drool-inducing scent of sausage. Probably a biscuit, nice and fluffy, like Mom used to make, slathered with butter and filled with meat, eggs, and cheese.
Lucky’s rumbling belly protested until another officer, reeking of cigarette smoke, trotted by slightly out of breath. Shift change, and he’d been here most of the night, except for a brief visit to an all-night urgent care clinic to check any damage he might have done.
Scrapes. Bruises. Soreness. He’d live.
