“No reservations,” Stryker said.
“Hell, yeah.” Marcus street parked two blocks from the abandoned building. In an eerie silence, the four men got out.
Eleven thirty-three.
Marcus stayed behind. If all hell broke loose, he was tasked with getting them—or their bullet-laden bodies—the hell out.
Under cover of a new moon, Dakota switched on his goggles and adjusted the headband. Then, he shouldered the backpack and tossed Marcus a nod before closing the door of the black SUV, one of several Dakota kept at his black site.
The foursome jogged toward the building. Stryker and Quincy at the head followed by Rys and Dakota. Dakota’s heart rate increased, but with the amount of adrenaline pumping through him, he expected it. The beats would slow once they settled into position.
Two dealers lingered on the street corner at the end of the quiet block. When they saw what looked like a SWAT team barreling toward them, they fled.
As planned, Stryker and Rys headed toward the back of the building while Dakota and Quincy entered through the front. Several rats scurried across the cavernous space. Before venturing down a dark hallway to the back offices, Dakota stopped and listened.
Upon hearing nothing, Dakota signaled that he was heading in while Quincy acted as lookout.
Dakota ensured each office was clear before wedging open the fire door leading out back. He entered the office across the hall and dragged a metal table and two chairs into the center of the room. He removed the NODs and replaced them with a headlamp from his backpack. Then, he sat, pulled off his leather gloves, and dropped them on his thigh.
And there, he waited, his steady inhale and slow exhale his only companion.
“Dakota,” said Marcus through the comm device.
“I’m here.”
“We’ve got a police cruiser rolling by the building.”
“Probably making the rounds.”
“He turned the corner.”
“I’ve got eyes on it,” Quincy said. “The car stopped out front.”
“Let us know if they get out,” Dakota said.
Four minutes later, a vehicle pulled up out back. The engine cut off. A door opened, then a second and a third.
“Quincy,” Dakota murmured. “Where are the police?”
“Still out front,” Quincy replied.
Fuck. Meyers had arrived with his bodyguards.
“Hello?” called a man.
“In here,” Dakota replied.
Meyers’s bodyguard entered.
“Who the hell are you?” Dakota asked.
“Mr. Ralphy’s assistant. Here to check the place out.”
Dakota spit out a grunt. “I hired Meyers to murder my wife. Why the hell would I tell anyone?”
“Relax,” said the bodyguard. “Mr. Meyers is outside.”
“Police drove away,” Quincy said into the comm.
