“You are dangerous. Maybe you should quit the CIA and come to the DEA.”
“No one ever quits the CIA, Jack. Haven’t you heard?”
“I’ve heard stories. Never knew if they were true or not. So you can only quit when you die?”
“Only if you give a two-week notice first.”
“Got it. Well, we’ll do our best to avoid the notice and the death stipulation while you’re here. Don’t want you tarnishing my good record.”
Jack and Shadow busied themselves with moving the small bed from the apartment over to the office behind the front counter, then the refrigerator and all the food. After they’d straightened up the tools left behind by the last tenant, Shadow inspected his new abode.
“I can’t believe you were going to put me over in that little shithole instead of this nice, roomy garage.”
“Honestly, I’m surprised no one before you thought of doing this. I’m going to take this as a good sign for things to come. Maybe you’re just what we need to wrap this case up. Two years undercover is changing Nick. This group is merciless and ice-cold.”
“Jack, I’ll do what I can to help close the case against them and shut down their operations for good. But my primary objective is to find Elle and Beth before it’s too late.”
The low, mean rumble of a motorcycle engine grew louder until it stopped just outside the garage. Jack and Shadow exchanged glances and moved to the office area where they could see outside. A tall, muscular man swung his leg over the Harley and slid his skullcap off his head.
“Well, if it isn’t Renegade himself.” Shadow walked toward him, no expression on his face to give away his thoughts. He felt eyes on him, searing his skin and heightening his senses.
“Shadow,” Nick replied, keeping his voice level and glancing up and down the street. “You all moved in?”
“Yeah. What little I have anyway.”
“Well,” Nick paused. “There goes the fucking neighborhood.”
With raucous laughter and manly hugs, the two men greeted each other like long-lost friends. Appearances weren’t a far cry from reality. They’d worked a couple of cases together—one before Nick joined the DEA and one afterward. They hadn’t seen each other in quite a while, but they’d initially established a close working relationship while protecting Dominic Powers that carried forward to that very day.
“What’s up with this hairstyle and manscaped beard? You turn into a pussy in prison or what?”
“You’re still so fucking funny. I’ve been in admin-seg for the last year. One of my punishments was to cut my hair and beard.”
“Administrative segregation. Why’d they put you in time-out for so long?”
“For killing another convict after he called me a pussy.”
Nick threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Fair enough, brother. I brought you a housewarming gift. Maybe that’ll keep you from killing me.”
“Depends on what you brought.”
Nick opened his saddlebag and withdrew two six-packs of beer. “Guessing it’s been a while since you’ve had one of these if you’ve been on lockdown for the past year.”
“You’re forgiven. Come on in and pop a top with us. Jack is here too.”
With the door closed, the three men sat in the office and talked. To anyone outside, they were laughing and becoming reacquainted after a prolonged absence. Cans of beer were tossed, fingers were pointed as smiles turned to laughter, and hands moved wildly through the air in animated displays.
Every move and gesture were carefully orchestrated to maintain the façade they’d created. While they shared pertinent, detailed information in private, their secret spectator would be none the wiser. Looks could be very deceiving, and assumptions were downright deadly. Their ruse was perfected over time and with intense training. It was as ingrained in them as riding a bike.
“Who’s watching us?” Shadow asked.
“Not sure. It’s not Bonebreaker. I just left him with his ole lady. Not saying he didn’t send someone to watch Jack or me, though.” Nick took a swig of his beer.
“Are you any closer to cracking the case and finding out who’s funding the change in their MO?” Jack asked.
“Not who’s funding it, but I did find an interesting puzzle piece today. Large sums of money are being transferred from the club’s accounts, routed through several dummy corporations, and finally deposited into an offshore account. Someone is already checking the dummy corporations’ names and officers for me.”
“What if no one is funding their newest venture? It could be the exact opposite,” Shadow contemplated. “Maybe we’ve been too focused on it being one way to see other possibilities.”
