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“Open a box on every pallet,” he instructed.
If it was cocaine, this was going to be a huge bust for his team—a new team assembled by the FBI to combat the drug problem in Missouri. A team Jackson had been promoted to lead after the serial-killer case.
He’d never dreamed of an opportunity like this, but everything had changed after that case and now he was determined to hold on to his blessings.
Plus, he had a deeply personal reason for taking on this new role.
JACKSON
“It’s negative for narcotics, Jackson,” Will said.
Jackson squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. All the intel was bad, from the number of men in this warehouse to the drugs in the shipment. Jackson cursed under his breath. “I want to take it all, and I want every brick tested. Let’s get a forklift to pick up these pallets and take them to the evidence center.”
“I’ll organize it,” Will said without hesitation.
Will was the first person Jackson met when he’d arrived at the training facility, and he’d liked him immediately. Will reminded him of Mitch, Jackson’s old boss—the sheriff of Redwater. They couldn’t be more different in appearance, though.
They called Mitch a pretty boy. He looked like he should star in a Hollywood movie. Will was no pretty boy. In fact, he was quite the opposite—he looked like the kind of guy a girl wouldn’t take home to meet her father, complete with tattoos, a crew cut, and enough scars to raise questions.
But what Mitch and Will had in common was a deep sense of doing the right thing. While their roles were different, their morals were not. Will had to toe the line more than Mitch ever had to, given his role, but he toed it nonetheless. And that’s why Jackson trusted him.
“I’m going to help the guys sweep the warehouse,” Jackson said, heading toward the back of the building.
He walked through the pallets, refusing to look at the men on the ground, refusing to let their deaths weigh on his conscience. That was the thing about killing someone: even if they were a bad, horrible person, they still had a family. They still had people who loved them, whose lives would forever be changed by their deaths.
But, the choices these men made every day ruined lives too. Even if there were no drugs at the warehouse tonight, it was no secret Diaz and his men controlled the supply for Oradale. Jackson just needed some solid evidence to prove it in court.
Not only did they supply Oradale, but Redwater too—his hometown—and Diaz’s supply had hit his family harder than they’d realized, until it was too late.
Jackson would never forget the day his parents had received the call. Jacob was dead, the gunshot wound killing him before the overdose had taken full effect. That death had changed their family forever. If he could save another family from living through that, he would. Ideally he’d just march them all into a prison, but he was not that delusional—they would not destroy Diaz’s drug ring without firing bullets, and if he had to pull his trigger to do that, he would.
Taking Diaz down and destroying his operation would open the territory for a new dealer, but they would not be able to operate at the same capacity as Diaz’s flourishing operation for some time. Jackson and his team couldn’t solve the drug problem in America by taking down one dealer and his conglomerate, but Jackson could put away the man who’d supplied his brother with drugs. If Diaz hadn’t killed Jacob, one of his men had, and that was the same thing to Jackson.
They were all going down.
Jackson shook his head, refocusing his thoughts. There would be time for that reckoning later, right now he had to find everything he could in this warehouse for the department to use against Diaz.
Jackson followed the sound of voices, walking through a metal door that was hard to see at first glance.
He raised his eyebrows as he walked in.
Rows of drums were lined up, tens of them.
“What do we have here?” Jackson asked as two men removed the lids, one by one.
“So far they’ve all been empty. We’ll need to test them for traces of narcotics... but it’s weird, don’t you think? Twenty-nine drums for... what?” Sam asked.
Jackson thought that over for a second. The barrels didn’t look well-worn—they didn’t look like they’d been tossed on and off trucks or ships. Most of them had only a few scratches.
“I think whatever they were planning to do with them hasn’t happened yet. You buy barrels to store or move things in. We might know more once we complete our sweep, but—”
“Oh!” Sam said, his head snapping back as he turned away from the drum. “That’s not empty,” he said, shaking his head and cursing under his breath.
Jackson stepped forward, leaning over to look inside the barrel. He squeezed his eyes shut as he quickly realized what had caused Sam’s reaction.
Jackson forced himself to take another look even though his stomach churned violently.
Long, dark hair floated in the liquid. Even if he was blindfolded, Jackson could tell a dead body was in the barrel. Rotting flesh had a distinct smell he’d become all too familiar with.
