Page 87 of Inflict

If his father needed a spy, fine.

If Sean wanted a second opinion, whatever.

A kill under the radar? Sure.

Connor did not actively work for his father, the O’Neil organization, or anything of the sort. He liked the distance he was able to have by not being considered one of his father’s feckin’ lackeys. Although he wasn’t entirely sure what his father’s actual lackeys thought he was to them, or to Sean, where the business was concerned.

Well, they knew to keep a distance.

Everyone knew that after spending any amount of time with Connor.

Connor checked his impulse to reach for one of three knives he had hidden on his person as he neared the two guards keeping watch over the front entrance of the warehouse. One of the two nodded in his direction, alerting the other who reached for the Magnum at his hip.

Guns didn’t scare Connor, but he didn’t particularly like the damn things. They were bulky, heavy, and not always easily hidden like a knife was. For the weight and profile of one handgun, Connor could hide several knives in the same spot where a gun could fit.

He knew how to use a gun, sure, and even owned a couple that he was fond of, but he didn’t keep one on himself, if he could help it.

A knife, though?

Always.

With one simple cut, Connor could have a man bleeding out on the ground in minutes, practically emptied of blood. He just needed to be close enough to do it, and men who liked guns seemed to favor getting their victim in close to take the shot.

The old saying was true, too.

A man should never bring a gun to a knife fight, or a knife to a gun fight.

Connor was always quick to make sure he could turn it into a knife fight before it ever became a gun fight.

“Who there?” the darker of the two men asked, jerking his prominent chin in Connor’s direction. He recognized the man’s thick accent, and instantly became uneasy, though he hid it well. “Speak, man!”

“Sean sent me over. O’Neil.”

It was all he was going to offer. Either he was in the right spot, or he wasn’t. If he was, then the guards should recognize Sean’s name, and let Connor pass by with no questions asked.

That was exactly what they did.

Neither of the two guards relaxed very much as Connor passed them by and slipped under one of the two half-opened loading doors. The first thing Connor was met with once inside the warehouse was a line of white vans—all with windows tinted too dark to see inside, and all were already running, idling quietly amidst the near silence of the warehouse.

Connor passed the vans, eyeing the rest of the place as he looked for any sign of life inside. Two shipping containers sat off in the corner, another guard standing in front of them with a much larger, more intimidating gun than the handguns the ones outside had been toting on their hips. Likely an AK of some sort. He wasn’t good enough with guns to know which was which on the spot, something he’d eventually have to rectify.

Other than a few scattered boxes, a pile of unopened cases of water, and a single engine double-seater plane toward the back, the warehouse didn’t have much inside to keep safe, or move.

Connor’s gaze skipped back to the guard standing in front of the shipping containers, and he felt that uneasy sensation sink into his gut again.

Feck his father straight to hell, if this was what he thought it was.

He didn’t get to dwell on his thoughts for long, as a door opened toward the back, drawing in his attention as several men walked out. Some tall, a couple short, and all ranging in skin tones from light like his arse, to darker than the one of the two men guarding the place—they barely gave him a second look.

Connor did recognize two of the men—“associates,” his father called them. They only came around a few times a year, and they didn’t stay for very long. Connor didn’t like the men himself, and preferred not to be around them all that much because of their specific business dealings. But as a child and young man, still living with his father, he hadn’t been given much of a choice. It was only once he was older had he been able to keep a healthy distance whenever they showed up.

Sometimes Sean just called them traders.

Others called them handlers.

Either way, the terms used for the men were run-arounds, meant to distract from the soulless, inhumane product they imported, or exported, depending on the deal.

These men—Jonson and Trevor, Connor had learned years ago—catered to a very specific portion of Sean’s business.