Well, she needed something.
He didn’t sound too groggy when he answered the call.
“Ron, this is Dani Kim. Remember me?”
“Of course, what can I do for you?”
“This is going to sound strange, but I need your help. Michael’s in trouble. And I think the people who have him might use an RWM garbage truck to move him. They would’ve picked him up from the Continental Transport building downtown.”
“If that’s the case, the garbage trucks do have tracking. I can ask the night security to give me a location. There shouldn’t be as many trucks out at this time of night, so it’d be easy to narrow down which one stopped there and find it.”
“I don’t know if we can trust the security guys.”
“You don’t say?”
“If they were working with Wilson, McCord, and Angelo, then no.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’m right down the road from the plant. I’ll go tell the security guard I left my phone and sneak a peek at their screens. I can see where the trucks are, and Steve would probably know which one isn’t where it’s supposed to be. He knows the routes.”
She didn’t like the plan, but it was the best they could come up with.
Hang on, Michael!
Twenty
Michael might have a strong stomach, but being stuffed into the tiny cargo space of the modified garbage truck was testing the limits of his threshold. He’d barely managed to move his arms enough to cover the lower part of his face with his shirt. He breathed through his mouth, fighting the gag reflex.
This space must be where the organization stashed the goods they were smuggling. Nothing big though. He barely fit his six-foot body in the narrow metal box. He didn’t want to think about how much it resembled a coffin.
But he did need to think through his next moves. He might not know what Martha meant by “meeting Victor” or why she would wait for Booker Wilson, but clearly, she was the one giving orders. So Victor was either a puppet, a prisoner, or if Michael’s current situation was any indication, more likely dead.
Like his mother.
What had Colter said when Michael asked if Wilson killed Gary Donner?
Yeah. And he said it wasn’t even the first cop he’d offed.
There hadn’t been many unexplained police deaths in the last ten years. And one of them was Martina Martinelli’s.
After half a decade, Michael was on the verge of knowing who’d killed her. And now he knew why. She hadn’t taken a bribe. She hadn’t been involved with Sean Fletcher’s drug enterprise. She’d been investigating the citywide corruption of the Shadow Syndicate.
She was a hero. A hero who’d died too soon. She’d missed Frankie’s graduation. She’d never been able to see Gabriel or Raphael play varsity football, Kate try her first case, or Eliza and Maria start their careers. The injustice of it all fed the fire burning inside Michael’s gut. After this whole ordeal was over, he’d probably be hit with grief and sorrow, but right now, he wanted a fight. Heaven help whoever he got his hands on first. Hopefully it would be Booker Wilson.
Michael’s head slammed into the side of the box as the truck hit a bump. Then another. The engine rumble stopped. Doors opened and slammed shut.
Go time.
The end of the box by Michael’s feet opened and a voice yelled, “Time to meet Victor, Martinelli.”
Meaty hands clamped down on Michael’s ankles and yanked his body free of the box. He fell to the cold gravel but quickly found his feet, fists raised in front of his face.
After the pitch-black confinement, the lone pole light above blinded Michael. He blinked until he could see again.
This time, only two of Martha’s men faced him with their M16s. The vast darkness beyond their forms swallowed the landscape. But he locked in on his targets.
And that was all he needed.
He lunged for the guy on his left, grabbing the barrel of the rifle and pointing it toward the other guard. Shots were fired, and the guard dropped to the ground while Michael wrestled, fighting to keep the end of the gun away from his own body. Locked in an evenly matched hold on the gun, he and the remaining guard each tried to push the barrel toward the other. It slowly angled toward the guard…
