Ah, fuck.
He tossed them a nod. “How’s it goin’?”
“You alone?” one of them asked.
“Like every other time, brothers.” He eyed the new guy. Orca big, mid-thirties.
His blood pressure stayed low, heart rate too. He was outnumbered, but he wasn’t concerned.
“We gotta search you, Hugo,” one of the guys said.
Hugo was Rebel’s undercover name for this gig. He had a carefully crafted legend as a handyman who floated around south Texas. While he had a barebones website, he was able to offer up a few references to verify his work. Those references were fellow FBI agents prepared to offer the necessary assist if needed.
These dealers were thorough. They called all of them, then arranged to meet one of them in person. The FBI rented a house where the “homeowner” could show him the work Rebel had done.
These dealers ran a serious—albeit, illegal—business, and no one was going to take them down.
Rebel bit back a smile.
“No prob.” Rebel removed his jacket, set it on the table. Next came his ghost gun before yanking off his sweater. He tugged off his boots, then stepped out of his worn jeans. He stood there in boxers. “I can take these off if you wanna check my crevice.”
Always on the offensive, Rebel said the same thing every single time. Consistency mattered, especially when building trust.
After the guys checked the clothing, including the jacket, they set it on the table.
“He’s good, boss,” said the first guy.
“Sit,” said the big man.
Rebel dressed, shoved his gun into the back of his pants before easing onto the rusted metal chair.
“You got a name?” Rebel asked the stranger.
“I go by TL,” the new guy said. “I hear you got access to a rig.”
“For one week,” Rebel lied.
“What’s the deal with that?”
“My brother’s a trucker for Grotto. He’s on vacation next week. I know where he keeps his keys, plus I said I’d swing by and feed his cats.”
“I fuckin’ hate cats,” TL said. “They do whatever the hell they want.”
“I need this gig. You need a truck and a reliable driver,” Rebel said, pulling him back on point.
“My boys trust you, but I don’t know crap about you. How do I know you ain’t a cop?”
“Life’s short, shit happens, people are mostly crazy.” Rebel slow-rolled Brit’s motto, like he’d been saying it his whole life.
The three men cracked up.
“Abso-fuckin’-lutely,” said one of the guys.
“I’m one of the crazies,” Rebel continued. “Your guys have been good to me. I was strapped for cash. They gave me a chance to prove myself. I need a big payday, you need a driver. I don’t drive too fast, I drive sober, and I drive alone. No cops, no booze, no pussy.”
C’mon, take the bait.
TL leaned forward, his beady eyes narrowing. “I smell a cop. Rip his coat apart, check his hair.”
