A map in a first-person shooter with plenty of advantageous fighting positions. A set piece for a dozen white collars to play toy soldier with a weekend of force-on-force training. But that means Chad’s tactical awareness will also spot the fighting positions out, even in the heat of a firefight.

  “What are we doing here anyway?” Fred asks. “I thought you needed to get something from that adjuster that tried to kill you.”

  “Capture,” I correct him. “Although he might be leaning the other way by now.”

  Fred toes a bit of burnt scrap. “Doesn’t answer my question.”

  Hands in my pockets, I pace, getting a feel for the layout. “We need Keith to think he’s in over his head with this deal. For that to work, he has to believe that the East Coast syndicate he’s in bed with won’t appreciate what he’s trying to pull.”

  “Right. So, what does Blackwell have to do with all of that?” Fred asks.

  “In order to convince Keith that he’s playing with fire, it has to look like Leon Bowden has gotten word of what he’s trying to pull,” I say. “And we don’t have the equipment to pull that off.”

  No need to sugarcoat it. Let Fred know the actual intent of drawing Mendoza out here.

  “And what does this equipment do?” he asks.

  “It will let you intercept comms and spoof the numbers I had you looking into,” I say. “Leon Bowden and his people, all in real-time. We make Keith think the conversation is legit—that dangerous people know about his attempt to cheat them.”

  Fred blows out a breath, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Okay, wow. You need to eliminate Mendoza and use what he’s got to make Keith think the East Coast power players are after the Ravens.” Fred nods, the pieces forming a solid, albeit risky, plan in his mind.

  “Not quite.” He’s not going to like this part. “We need something from Mendoza, yes. But I’m not going to kill him. That would draw more heat on us at the worst possible time.”

  “So…how do you intend on getting what you need from the man trying to kill—capture you?”

  This part he’ll like even less. “While he’s focused on me, you grab what I need from Mendoza’s pack. It’ll still be on his bike while he’s talking to me.”

  “Are you nuts!?” Fred closes his eyes. “Why does it always get so much more complicated with you? Your original plan was better. Just let me focus on my job and bring the batch of bills to Keith tomorrow night.”

  “My plan was to make them think you were doing that, to buy us time for something better,” I remind him.

  Fred spreads his arms to his sides, gesturing to the burnt-out husk of a building we’re in. “This is hardly something better, Daniel.”

  He completes a short loop around the room we’re standing in, kicking some debris around.

  He’s spooked big time. Understandable. Fred never asked for any of this. I’m trying to help get him out from under the Ravens, but only because I need something from him. He deserves better. Unfortunately, this is the only way, given the hole we’ve dug ourselves into—the hole I dug, anyway.

  “We don’t have to do this,” Fred says. “You can just leave. Get out while you can before Blackwell finds you. I wouldn’t blame you.”

  “That doesn’t solve your problem,” I say. “We get the Ravens off your back, then we can worry about me. Splitting our focus now is counterproductive.”

  “Right. I got it,” Fred says. “Make Keith think Leon and his people are after him, so he’ll tuck tail and run. Then we whip up some new papers for the both of us, and we disappear.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Bonus—we’ll have some quick cash to gain some ground,” he says with a wry smile.

  I share his amusement. Counterfeit bills would give us a running start. But it’ll leave a trail. One Morrow could use to pick up my scent again, and burn any new ID Fred generates for me. Still, at this moment, we’re able to share a laugh.

  Until Fred’s mind drifts back to our current woes.

  “What if they decide to gun us down right there?” Fred asks. “Keith, I mean. Or his mad dog, Ben.”

  “If it comes to that, you’ll have plenty of warning to get away,” I say. “It’ll be me delivering the good news to Keith. You’ll hide off to the side, acting as Bowden during our back-and-forth text conversation.”

  “How am I supposed to—right, the gear from Mendoza,” he says, the plan snapping into place in his mind. “The numbers we got from Valentin’s phone.”

  I touch the tip of my nose with an index finger.

  “And if Keith doesn’t buy it?” Fred asks. “Or worse, doesn’t care.”

  “Well, if he’s that much of a maniac, we switch to the fireworks show. Once the shooting starts, you keep your head down and get away. There’s no salvaging things after that.”

  Fred closes his eyes. “Great.”

  “Hey, it’s not going to get that far,” I say. “Keith isn’t giving off the vibe of an insane killer.”

  Images of Domino Goss flick through my mind.

  I put a hand on Fred’s shoulder. “Keith isn’t a genius, but he’s not dumb enough to push back against this syndicate. His VP will talk sense into him if he’s still not getting the message.”

  “Devant is just as nuts,” Fred says. “Guy would probably toss his own mother to the wolves just for a few extra bucks.”

  I shake my head. “No. That’s just what they want you to believe. That’s how they keep their reputation on the streets, so no one thinks to cross them.”

  “I hope you’re right, Daniel.”

  So do I.

  “Why now, though?” Fred asks. “What are we doing out here? In the middle of the night, after a long day of moving?”

  He’s really not going to like this part of the plan.

  CHAPTER

  14

  “Right now?” Fred paces back and forth, clutching two fistfuls of his thinning hair. “You want Mendoza to find us right now?”

  I’d clocked his approach several minutes ago. The binoculars I’d picked up aren’t the best quality, but that e-bike Chad rides is quite distinctive.

  The generous field of view this place provides gave him away. The only problem is that his bike is near-silent. He’s been watching us put our plan together out here, so I have no doubt he’ll be on top of us in no time.

  “Listen, this is important, Fred.”

  He nods, licking his lower lip.

  “I’m going to draw Mendoza to me. He’s not dumb enough to let you sneak up and get the jump on him, so I need you to make him think you’re running away.”

  “That won’t be hard,” Fred says.

  “Once he’s locked onto me, you get to his bike. I need you to grab something from his pack,” Holding my thumb and index finger, I approximate the size of something. “It’ll look like a flash drive. A bit bulkier, with its own external power source.”

  “How big? How bulky?” His eyes are wide, struggling to keep up with everything I tell him.

  “Not much bigger than the old thumb drives from ten or so years ago. Maybe an additional few millimeters,” I say. “You can’t miss it.”

  “What if he’s got it on him?” Fred asks.

  I shake my head. “It’ll be in a backpack or a sling bag attached to his bike. He’ll have no reason to carry it on him.”

  “Can’t I just grab the whole bag?”

  “No. If he realizes the bag is missing, he and Morrow will know to track us using the gear inside that pack. If we want this to work, he’ll have to believe I just got away clean, and he’ll have to rely on slower methods to pick up my trail again.”

  A flicker of movement. A shadow approaching. He’s here.

  “Fred, listen to me. I’m going to talk to him. He has to see you running for the car.”

  “He’ll shoot me,” Fred gasps.

  “He’s not after you. I’m the one he wants.” Once he’s listening, I continue. “Drive just outside of view and get out of the vehicle. Come back here and grab the device while I’ve got him focused on me.”

  “It’s not going to work,” Fred whispers, his voice a wheeze.

  No choice now. Game on.

  “You’re better than I thought,” I say.

  Fred whirls on his heel, watching the man emerge from the shadows. He clutches my sleeves, hands and arms quivering.

  Run, I mouth to him.

  “You’re just sloppy,” Chad Mendoza says.

  * * *

  Fred huffs, a croak slipping past his lips as he stumbles away, running for his SUV. Chad’s mouth twitches, a smirk tugging at the corner as his hand drifts to his holstered pistol.

  No. Don’t shoot. My hand floats near the P30 behind my left hip. The plan can’t fall apart now.

  “He’s a smart guy,” Chad says, drawing his weapon and letting his arm hang as he turns to face me.

  Fred climbs into the driver’s seat, slamming the door as the engine rumbles awake. He drives off as Chad takes another few paces my way.

  “That your ride?” he asks, wincing. “Bummer. Looks like you’ll have to come back with me.”

  “On that little toy bike of yours?” Start with some light jabs. Playful banter. No need to escalate. “Should I clasp my hands around your waist as we ride off into the sunset?”

  “Little late for that now,” Chad says.

  “You’re right. The sun set hours ago.”

  Chad chuckles, eyes drifting to the ground. They float back up, the muzzle of his pistol following as it points at my chest. He walks forward. I walk back.

  We’re inside what’s left of the building.

  “Tomorrow wants you alive.” His pistol holds steady, unwavering. “But my report could just as easily say you went for that HK under your jacket. I had no choice but to engage—to neutralize the threat.”

  It’s a bluff. His eyes, his posture—they sell it well, but his action is the tell. If that were his plan, he would have shot me already. He wants me on my heels. Mentally. Tactically.

  The man’s weapon is close to his body, elbow tucked. He’s still wearing his helmet. Given the distance between us, my combat options are greatly limited. Even in close, viable targets are limited to his body and limbs. But Mendoza knows that.

  I can only hope his helmet limits visibility enough to open up a possible avenue to evade the adjuster. Mendoza’s weapon is aimed at my sternum. Maybe he’s not bluffing. Killing me would make his life difficult. But only in an administrative sense. He wouldn’t be facing any charges, only the aggravation of his superiors berating him for killing an asset that was supposed to be taken alive.

  Don’t panic, Daniel. Let the plan play out as discussed. Taking several steps back, I draw Chad closer to me. He’s not foolish enough to get within range for me to disarm him, but he only needs to put more distance between himself and his bike—his gear.

  “Not sure where you think you’re headed, Danny.” Chad’s other hand drifts upward, securing a solid grip on his weapon. “If you think you can pull me into a trap, you’re sadly mistaken. I’ll drop you here and sleep just fine tonight.”

  “I’m not trying anything,” I say. “You’re making me nervous with that pistol, though. You said Morrow wanted me alive, but you’re looking for every excuse to shoot me right here.”

  He smiles. A wolf anticipating a meal. His tongue pokes out at the corner of his mouth, amused. Chad’s tasting blood already.

  “Alive just means fewer headaches in the post-game briefing,” Chad says. “But that front-loads the hassles, having to deal with you. If I flip that, make the opening section easy, the second half is much less risky. Just a few bumps in the road. Red marks in my files. Nothing I can’t overcome.”

  He’s talking. That’s good. Chad’s face, his swagger, he needs me to know I’m bested. It’s part of the seasoning for this meal. If he ends this without me admitting I’m beat, it’ll be a lot less sweeter for him.

  He takes a step forward. I bring a foot back, mirroring his movements. Not to get away from him, merely to load up my opening move. If this is what he wants, I may as well make him work for it.

  Swinging my rear leg forward, the side of my foot scoops up the dust and debris I’d been gathering with my shuffling retreat. Now, it sails in a plume of detritus, trash, bits of metal and plastic—an unpleasant cloud of chaos.

  He flinches, turning his head as I sprint to the side, bracing for the gunshots. But Mendoza laughs.

  “That was fun. Didn’t see that coming,” he says.

  We’re in the next phase of this encounter…the cat-and-mouse game. At least, that’s what I need him thinking.

  “Morrow says you love this hide-and-seek crap. Says that’s what you used to bring in Cade and his muscle, Domino.”

  He wants me to reply, giving up my position—my advantage. Mendoza is operating under the assumption that I’m on the run now, trying to stay far away. There’s no point in keeping the distance between us so great. Someone, somewhere, said the best defense is a good offense. Let’s find out.

  I clutch a chunk of rebar from a nearby pile of debris, cutting a path toward Mendoza. Rushing a man armed with a pistol is a quick way to get yourself shot. But Mendoza has to put forth a modicum of effort to bring me in alive.

  If he sees me with my own handgun drawn, this becomes a firefight. The chances of either of us getting out alive drop dangerously low. But I present a much different threat—a challenge. Mendoza sees a charging opponent armed with a makeshift club. The presentation works as his body language morphs. He falls back a half step out of reflex. But he’s calm. Calculated. Professional.

  The pistol remains silent. His actions reveal that he intends to follow orders to capture if possible. But kill if necessary is always going to be on the table. It’s a delicate balance.

  The bull rush bridges the gap, giving me an approach vector that takes advantage of the helmet’s limited field of view. Arm reared back, my forward momentum is added to the force of the rebar as I hurl it at my opponent. The chunk of iron cracks the visor. Mendoza’s head snaps back.

  I’m on top of him now, dropping levels and driving a shoulder through his midsection. Hands clasped around his waist, I get my feet underneath me, lifting him off his feet as an involuntary growl escapes from my gritted teeth.

  We hit the ground together, but Chad, still holding the pistol, brings the muzzle toward me, his elbow close to his body, firing from retention. The bullet slices through my shirt but misses the flesh and muscle underneath.

  I may not be able to finish with headshots, but I can make his fight harder. A slashing elbow smashes across Chad’s eyeline. The spider-webbing on the visor grows worse. I posture up to deliver another blow.

  Mendoza shifts, anticipating.

  Thank you.

  His reaction focuses too much on the threat of another elbow strike, isolating the weapon in his right hand. I strip the pistol from his grasp. It slips free, but a fist hammers across my jaw before my hands find the grip.

  The man found his target based on feeling alone. Even with the cracked visor, Mendoza is dangerous at this range. Stars fill my vision. A metallic snap. Sharp pain shoots from my radial nerve, spiraling out to my elbow and fingertips. Hand is numb.

  The pistol is on the ground now.

  Planting my hands on Chad’s chest, I push myself to my feet, building the distance between us. My foot swipes across the ground, sending the handgun away in a spray of dust and pebbles. Mendoza slashes at me again with the snap baton he so stealthily deployed. I clear the weapon’s tip, falling back a few more steps as Chad rises.

  He yanks his helmet off, hurling it to the side, clutching the baton in his right hand. The shark’s grin is unnerving. On my heels, empty-handed, things aren’t looking so hot. Not so sure I’m prepared for this fight anymore.

  Even with a sub-second draw, I would be hard-pressed to aim and fire before he closed in. And with my pistol tucked under my shirt, it would take two or three times as long to bring the handgun into this fight.

  “You got sloppy, Danny Boy,” Mendoza says, smile beaming in the night. “It was too easy to find you out here once Morrow got word of the vehicle your little buddy was driving.”

  There’s my lifeline. Mendoza is cocky. He needs me to know how sloppy I am—how smart he is. I can use that. But not if I’m unarmed.

  My eye falls to the bit of rebar. Chad sees me staring at it. His smile twists and shifts as if chewing on something, savoring the flavor. He kicks the length of iron toward me.

  “Go on,” he says, inviting me to pick it up. “It would be a shame if I wasted this opportunity to have a little fun. I could use a good workout.”

  With a short, shuffling hop, I scoop the rebar off the ground, falling back a meter. Chad laughs. The makeshift weapon sits well enough—moves smoothly enough. But it’s still performing a secondary role, not intended to be used this way. It’s not ideal, but better than empty hands.

  Chad’s background gives him the advantage. He’s got extensive training in the Filipino fighting arts. Arnis, Escrima, hours upon hours spent with sticks and blades in his hands, fighting the enemy in close quarters.

  I’m not winning this fight. But what choice do I have?

  * * *

  Fred flinches as the pistol barks. He staggers, falling into the bushes near the building. Hands patting his body, looking for blood, he exhales, finding only a stick jabbing him in the side from the shrubs that broke his fall.

  The Blackwell adjuster hadn’t spotted him and shot him. But now that he’s on his feet, moving toward the motorcycle parked in the shadows, Fred sees Daniel separating from his foe. He kicks something off to the side—a handgun.

  Is he winning?

  No. The other man is on his feet now, tossing his helmet. They’re face to face, ten or twelve feet between them. But Daniel is unarmed, and the man stalking him has a baton in his hand, tracing circles and figure-eights in the air as he taunts his victim.

 

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