“I’m with him,” I nod at the frightened mouse in the vehicle. “We discussed it with Keith. Mr. Dyson will deliver, as promised. But he can’t do that if you drag him in and beat him.”

  The biker’s eyes cycle through the puzzle before him. The various looks and expressions all spell trouble—until they don’t. He’s processing the situation. Our stand-off helps in the matter.

  Come on, bro. We don’t need to fight about this.

  His muzzle dips. Just an inch, but the signal is loud and clear. He wants out just as bad as I do.

  “I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’re a dead man when this is over,” he says. “Keith will drag your carcass behind his bike after Freddie makes good on the deal.

  They certainly love that threat. Paints a gruesome picture. Either Keith has followed through before, or stories exaggerated a similar situation until it settled into their frightening legend.

  But this guy is bluffing. He’s trying on a mask to frighten me, hoping I’ll be as scared as he is. We can dance this dance. I don’t want to give him a reason to think he needs to escalate.

  “I’m here to make sure my client is safe.” I lower my weapon. “Once he concludes his business, you won’t have to worry about me anymore.”

  The head rider tucks the pistol into the front of his waistband, unholstered. Outlaw style. These guys live dangerously—or they want everyone to believe they do. The downed biker rises to shaky legs, climbing back into his bike. He eyes the pistol in my hand. He thinks I’m going to hand it over. The look in my eye denies his request.

  The choppers growl and roar. The Ravens roll away, heads held high, convincing themselves they came out on top. They’re alive, so it’s not far from the truth. Fred and I are still behind on the scoreboard.

  The weapon in my hand makes its weight apparent now that the adrenaline has lost its potency. It’s a beast of a handgun. Smith & Wesson M&P. Forty-five ACP, because, of course, that’s what a manly man would carry, to convince other manly men that he’s tough.

  Ten in the mag. I clear the weapon and hook my fingers under the latch to the passenger side door. My fingers slip free, snapping the latch back into place.

  “Let me in, Fred.”

  He barely moves, still cowering in the seat as a hand slithers toward the switch to unlock the vehicle. I open the door, stashing the weapon and ammo in the glove compartment. He’s mumbling to himself. An incoherent prayer of some sort, eyes closed.

  “We should go back to the safe house.”

  Fred flinches when he hears my words. I settle into the seat beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. He looks up at me, still trying to melt into the faux leather seat.

  “Fred. It’s too dangerous to be out here. You need to get back and lay low.”

  He nods, still staring at me. After another few breaths, he nods again, pulling himself upright with the steering wheel.

  His voice comes out in a croak. “That was—”

  “Foolish,” I say.

  “Close,” he finishes. “They were going to kill me.”

  “Eventually,” I say. “You can’t take any more stupid risks like that. Even for me.”

  * * *

  Chad Mendoza watches the encounter through his binoculars. Four bikers have surrounded an SUV. But it’s the outsider he’s focused on. The stranger disarms one of the threats, using the biker’s weapon to force a standoff with the rest. That’s my man, he thinks. Daniel Lee.

  The scene unfolds as excitement builds. Chad’s posture straightens, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. This is tense. But the outcome is all but decided before it even starts. There’s no way a meth-pushing motorcycle club is going to get the drop on Daniel.

  Chad is too far away to hear the exchange. Threats of violence ping-ponging back and forth until someone loses their cool. That’s when Danny Boy will make his move. Who’s he gunning for first?

  The biker lowers his weapon. Daniel follows suit. What the hell? The standoff ends. The bikers leave. How did it end peacefully?

  Maybe a shootout was too much, but I was hoping for a brawl at the very least. You’re really losing your edge, Danny.

  Daniel talks to the guy in the SUV before scooping up his discarded helmet and falling back to a dump of a scooter in the parking lot. Chad swipes a finger across the smooth, glossy surface of the bud tucked in his right ear, initiating a call.

  Daniel pulls out of the parking lot, heading in the opposite direction of the SUV.

  “Morrow,” the man on the line says.

  “I found Lee,” Chad says.

  “How certain are you?”

  “Two hundred percent,” Chad says. “He’s got the same slick moves as the intel pack you provided. He’s softened a bit, though. I think life on the run blunted his edge.”

  “Don’t underestimate Lee,” Morrow says.

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s how lesser men get killed. You worry about your paperwork. I’ll handle mine,” he replies.

  “What’s Lee doing now?”

  “Just talked with another man. Fred Dyson is my guess.” Chad pulls a glove over his left hand, flexing his fingers to adjust the fit. “I’m gonna tail Lee. I’ll pass the info for Dyson’s ride if you want to dig into him further.”

  “Add it to the file,” Morrow says. “But Lee is the primary. We can’t afford to lose him again.”

  “Gotcha, Tomorrow,” Chad says. “This ain’t my first op. I’ll make sure we bag and tag Lee.”

  “Alive,” Morrow says.

  Chad smirks. “Of course.”

  He taps the earbud, killing the call. Stuffing the binoculars into his pack, Chad shrugs the straps over his shoulders. He grabs the Mountain Dew Code Red bottle from the sidewalk and straddles his motorcycle, downing the last few gulps of the beverage.

  He crushes the plastic bottle, securing the cap to keep the air from coming back in and restoring its shape. He snaps a glance at the trashcan five yards away. With a short flick of his wrist, he sends the bottle twirling in a lazy spin, tracing a high arc.

  The bottle clips a chip bag perched along the edge, both pieces of trash tumbling inside. Chad tugs the helmet over his head, rocking it to settle into position. His Zero SR/S electric motorcycle surged forward, launching into traffic with a barely audible hum.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Fred is still shaken after the ordeal. It’s night now, tucked away in our hideout. But I doubt he’s been able to relax, convinced the club followed him back here. His dinner sits, uneaten, an arms-length away.

  “It’s not safe. They’re going to kick that door down any second,” Fred says, rocking back and forth on the chair at the small, round table.

  “We’ve been here for hours. No one is coming,” I say, eyeing the bottle of whiskey in front of him.

  He’d occasionally sipped it for several minutes to calm his nerves but downed several large swallows when I returned with our food. Without a word, I pick the bottle up, pour another finger into his glass, and put the rest in the cupboard.

  “Get some rest. I’ve still got a lot to look into from the information you discovered from before.” Give him something to focus on. Let him know his work is appreciated and will help us get out of this jam.

  He nods but doesn’t move. I guide him gently, two fingers along the back of his elbow to nudge him to his feet. He shuffles across the worn, filthy carpet toward the only bed in the apartment.

  “You’re still wearing your shoes.”

  He mumbles a half-apology, sitting on the bed to kick off the black dress shoes before swinging his legs onto the comforter. His mind is still elsewhere as his head rests on the pillow.

  Even if he spaces out for an hour, it’ll help. Something to occupy his mind as I dig into what we’ve got. This afternoon was a close one. The Ravens have shown that they’re willing to do whatever it takes to send a message to anyone who crosses them, even if it conflicts with what they need. They’re hardly tactical masterminds, which makes them more dangerous. Unpredictable.

  I figured he’d be tossing and turning, but to my surprise, the man’s eyes slowly closed. A moment later, he’s breathing deeply, slumber already embracing him. Looks like it’s my turn.

  Fred’s files are by no means is it a treasure trove, but with the information from the middleman in the Porche Cayenne, the address of the Raven’s meth house, and a name connected to the East Coast syndicate, it’s promising.

  Fred had struggled to see anything of value, but he’s also been distracted the past few days. Can’t say I blame him. He missed the valuable contact number for Leon Bowden, plucked from the middleman, Valentin’s recent contacts.

  By the time Fred snaps out of his stupor, we’ll have a solid plan to deal with Keith and the Ravens.

  There’s something here. The info is going to be helpful to disrupt the club’s business. Perhaps causing trouble with the handful of spots they sell from might show Bowden that the Ravens don’t have the network to move as much product as they claim.

  Choking off their current supply would put a dent in the numbers, too. To do that, I might be able to get the police looking closer at the spot where they’re producing their garbage.

  Although without any solid evidence, they’re hardly going to mobilize the DEA, much less put together a task force. The timetable would still leave Fred on the hook for the counterfeit bills.

  Whatever I do has to bring the heat sooner rather than later—which means I’ll be heading out while Fred is resting, back with the goods before he wakes.

  There’s a camera sitting on the table near the front door. One of his nicer ones that he’d gone back for earlier. One that nearly got him killed. I can put it to use. Surely Fred won’t mind me borrowing it to help him out.

  No need to worry the man.

  * * *

  The scooter wobbles on its tiny wheels as I work the zipper up higher on my windbreaker. It’s early evening, but without the sun’s glow, riding through the air sends a chill through my arms and chest.

  The chances of anything happening at the trap house are slim, but I don’t need significant activity. Proof that they’re manufacturing should get the right people’s attention.

  Showing the equipment in the house should be enough to bring some heat down onto their heads, even if it’s not currently in use. Anything that gets the police snooping around in the next few days would be good for this plan.

  The activity lightens significantly as I near the neighborhood. This block doesn’t get much in the way of traffic. Bad for me, riding around on this puttering little scooter. But it’s also bad for the guy tailing me for the last mile.

  I see only a black shape in the rearview. Seventy—eighty yards back, maybe. No lights. I can’t hear any motor, so the bike’s tuned to run quietly. Or he’s coasting, knowing I don’t have the punch to pull ahead.

  It could be a lookout on a bicycle, tailing anyone who doesn’t belong on this street. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but my gut is telling me it’s a tail. Lookout, or worse, I’ll have to keep my head on a swivel.

  The silhouette is not some kid pedaling behind me on a mountain bike. It also doesn’t have the beefy girth of the choppers that the Ravens ride. The slim profile and hint of the fairing read like a racing bike. Bowden’s people? Are they sending someone to investigate the Raven’s production house?

  If he’s sending his guys to keep tabs on Keith’s business, that works better for Fred and me. He’ll catch wind of any cops snooping around and sever ties with the Ravens, leaving them high and dry. Of course, I’ll have to lay low until the coast is clear before continuing the plan tonight.

  Wait. The bike’s gone now, slipping away while my mind wandered, entertaining the idea of the East Coast syndicate deciding the Ravens are too much trouble.

  I’ve got no tail anymore. Is that good or bad? The paranoia is getting to me. I blow out a breath and continue toward my destination. No need to let my guard down, though.

  Rounding the corner, I stop on the curb down the street before killing the mini motor and setting the helmet on the seat. Lifting the camera strap over my head, I wade into the darkness. It takes a few moments, fiddling with the controls, to bring up the night vision mode, revealing the bushes and nearby house in high-contrast black and white.

  All alone. No mystery bikes or pedestrians wandering about. It’s quiet, except for the dull drone and buzz of the insects. Now I’m wondering if I’d imagined the stranger tailing me.

  Guess that means it’s all clear—time to start the show. I press the button to record a video, approaching the edge of the property, where a row of bushes obscures my view of the house.

  “Game’s over, Danny.” The voice from behind sparks a dark, distant memory.

  My blood runs ice-cold.

  CHAPTER

  11

  The man behind me steps up onto the sidewalk. I turn to face him, legs bent, sitting in a fighting stance. I’d lost the initiative. How did he get behind me?

  The bike. It’s electric—quiet. This was the man tailing me.

  I stare at the dark figure—a shadow from my past—a foe in this moment. Chad Mendoza. A Blackwell Protocol adjuster I’d run in a few of the same circles with in my last days with the organization. I hate Chad.

  “Didn’t expect to cross paths again, Danny.”

  The fact that he calls me Danny is pretty low on the list of reasons I dislike the guy. He’s smug. Cocky. But he’s also dangerous.

  Keep him talking. Buy some time. “Morrow brought you in on his chase, I see.”

  “Or, maybe I requested an invitation,” Chad says, arms sweeping out to the sides.

  “I was wondering what would bring you all the way out here to Arkansas,” I say.

  “Well, we both know the answer,” Chad replies. “Here to bring you in, Danny Boy.”

  “Daniel.”

  “Right. You’re still sensitive about that.”

  “We have no quarrel, Chad.” It’s only half true. I truly want to plant a fist into his smug face.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You’ve been a thorn in my side for far too long,” he says. “Even after your grand exit, I’ve been stuck under your shadow.”

  Chad Mendoza is one of Blackwell’s rising stars. He’s relentless and persistent. The man clamps down and doesn’t let go until the job is done. His presence here all but extinguishes any hope of securing a new identity and slipping away.

  Still, he’s an upstart. Easy to rile up by pushing his buttons. “Jealousy? You’re here because Mommy and Daddy saw me as the best?”

  “Hardly the best,” Chad barks. “Your work was sloppy. It undermined much of what I’d been accomplishing out there. I’m the one that cleaned up your messes.”

  “Didn’t you ever stop to think why I was doing the things the way I did?” Maybe I can get him to question his motivations.

  Chad shrugs. “Didn’t much care. You had a job to do, but no matter how poorly you performed, how many loose ends you left, they kept you on the roster.”

  “They weren’t loose ends, Mendoza. You’re talking about people’s lives like they’re numbers. Assets and liabilities.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  Chad’s entirely sold on the marketing. He drinks the Kool-Aid. Perhaps appealing to his better self is a dead end.

  “Blackwell requests and adjustment, and we go out in the field to take care of business, Danny,” he says. “Do your job, and take the money. Sprinkling your ideas—morals—that messes things up.”

  “We were messing things up,” I say. “It was the people we were targeting, the local powers that we usurped that clouded things.”

  “Those hot zones would fall into anarchy without us,” Chad says.

  “No. Don’t buy into the lies, Mendoza. It’s just about money. Power.”

  A flicker of a smile on his face. He’s a predator that smells blood. “Money. Power. We get our cut of each for every successful adjustment.”

  There’s his truth. He’s not wearing a mask. He has fully bought into the mission statement of the Blackwell Protocol. Chad Mendoza has plans to move up the ladder. His ambitions go to the top.

  Talking has removed the tempo advantage he stole initially. But without a weapon, this ends badly for me. My hands subconsciously scout for a suitable option. The pistol would swing things in my favor. But it’s concealed, tucked behind my left hip. Too slow to draw before he can close in.

  A blade is the next best choice. But the only one I’ve got is folded up in the multi-tool, too difficult to deploy. Door number three—my flashlight. It’s not a fight-stopper, but in a pinch, if things go south, its debuffing effect will allow me to bridge the gap and engage.

  Things go south.

  Chad rushes, kickstarting the encounter. He’s clutching a rod or baton, slashing through the air—nonlethal. Morrow must still want me alive. Or perhaps Chad wants this to hurt, to drag out our dance to make sure it’s a night to remember before putting a bullet in my head.

  The flashlight is already in my hand, the lens poking out from the pinky side of my fist. I bring it up and thumb the butt cap, blasting Chad in the face with 800 lumens…but his eyes dip, eye line dropping to my waist while shielding his face with a forearm.

  Smart, keeping his eyes on my center of gravity so he knows where and how I’ll move next. More importantly, he avoids the temporary blindness that would have swung the fight my way.

  It’s Chad’s turn now. He blasts me in the face, but instead of an intense white beam, he opts for a right cross to light me up. My feet lose contact with the sidewalk. I stagger, struggling to maintain my balance, and the flashlight hits the sidewalk, the bright beam warbling as it spins away. That was my favorite light!

  “You’re still using those schoolyard tactics?” Chad twirls the baton playfully. “That’s sad, Danny. Thought maybe you’d finally grown up like the rest of us.”

 

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