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There was no other lighting—not from rooms—and there was no sign that this place had been used by the homeless, or any kind of criminal enterprise. If anything, it was a ghost motel and one major storm short of collapsing in on itself. I didn’t have a good feeling. Not least that Danvers hadn’t assigned someone to accompany me. That was unnerving as wouldn’t he want to watch me—how much of this was anotherfuckingtest? Was there even going to be a shipment here? Doubts invaded my focus. My skin itched with paranoia that this was some kind of setup, and my fingers flexed with the need to pull out my weapon.
Only, I was supposed to be here on official business, supposed to be feeling safe with the bad guys backup I had going on, and someone in that position wouldn’t resort to taking out his gun because of a feeling something was wrong. Right? Or would they think it was unusual for me to walk blind into a situation without taking precautions? I unclipped my holster, removed my gun, and opened the car door, expecting red dots from the weapons of waiting snipers to appear on my chest or catch my eye. Nothing.
“They’re ten out,” the voice was crisp and clear in my ear—Mitchell’s voice—the same as it had been since I’d left the city. The countdown to whatever the delivery was started at that moment, and now with ten minutes to go, I wondered what in hell I was going to find when it got here. Human trafficking. Drugs. Weapons. Or a combination of all of them.
“Copy.” I replied, although it grated on my last nerve to acknowledge Mitchell was watching everything.
“You can holster your weapon, Myers,” Mitchell said, which gave me confirmation that yes, I was being watched.
“Fuck you.”
Mitchell chuckled like this was some cosmic joke.
“This way.” For a second I thought it was Mitchell giving me instructions, then realized one guard was gesturing me towards the front where I’d come in.
I followed him to where a small army of people stood, all dressed in black and armed to the teeth. I counted ten, two women, the rest men.
“Boss,” one of them acknowledged me, although the others were quiet. I inclined my head to show I’d heard him and then expected us all to stand in silence. But the same man who had spoken then sneezed. “Sorry,” he murmured, then sneezed again, confiding loudly in the guy next to him. “My friend’s kid has this cat, black and white thing, called it Oreo would you believe, after the cookie. Allergic.”
Oreo? The same as Ben’s cat? My chest tightened. Was this Danvers sending me a message? Warning me? Was Ben okay? Or is this some kind of freaky coincidence? I glanced over at the sneezing guard, but it was difficult to tell his expression in the dark, despite how close we were standing. He was shorter than the others, but that gave nothing away, and it didn’t help that he had the brim of his cap tilted down. There was something familiar about the way he held himself. Was it one of Danvers’ guys? I tried not to stare, or make it obvious I was worried, and he stopped sneezing, and I focused on the rumble of a truck approaching our location.
“Two minutes,” Mitchell instructed in my ear.
I tensed as a large transporter lumbered up the small hill before stopping at the gate. Sneezing-guard and one other stayed back with me as the others spread out to check the driver, and complete a walk around—checking for what, I didn’t know. Probably tracking systems, or signs of tampering? They were quick and efficient and had clearly done this before. I glanced over at Sneezing-Guard, and he tilted his chin. In that split second I could see who it was in the lights from the truck.
Kayden.
Sanctuary was here. They had my back.
Who was with Josh and Ben? I had to trust they knew what they were doing.
I didn’t glance his way again. I had to play this as if I was there to accept whatever shipment had arrived, and not show a single sign of fear or the worry that churned in my belly.
“Clear,” one of the inspecting guards announced.
“Clear,” the second added, then a third, and more before they stepped back and out of the way, each checking in different directions.
I had explicit instructions about what to do next—the shipment was to be separated into four lots, vehicles arriving through the night to take specific parts of it according to a ledger that Mitchell would read from when it came time to allocate to buyers. He would loop in Danvers if I suspected there were any issues. My job was simple. It was to make sure no fucker took any of the load—Danvers’ words, not mine. Danvers confirmed he’d had handled any potential federal interference, but the team he used was with him, not me. I didn’t know why I’d been abandoned to this, but if Danvers said he’d fixed things, so authorities turned the other way, I hope he meant out here as well.
How high had the rot gone? If I got out of this alive, I was bringing every single one of them down. Unless I disappeared with Josh and Ben because a safe house was the only way to keep him safe. Rouxier seemed to suggest he didn’t care about either of them, but something wasn’t sitting right.
Danvers said in no uncertain terms I wouldn’t be seeing the one-fifty from tonight’s job. I was the lackey with a performance-led bonus, whatever that meant. I’d pretended to be pissed—my cover story was that I needed that money, and all he’d done was raise an eyebrow.
Yeah, another test.
The driver of the rig jumped out, stretching his arms, bitching about the cramped cab and how this was his last job, and that he wasn’t doing this again, unless he got paid more. No one listened to him as he sauntered off into the dark, muttering about no bathrooms. One down.
“This way,” Guard-In-Charge ordered, and me and a group of other guards, Kayden included, headed to the back of the large truck. I steeled myself for what might be inside, wondering if I could go through with this if I faced people inside.
“Tell them to open the back,” Mitchell instructed through the comm in my ear. I know he could see everything through my body cam, and I hated he was even talking to me.
“Open it up,” I relayed to the others, and with the back doors open and a ramp lowered, I was handed a flashlight and faced equal-sized, neatly stacked boxes. At a casual glance, the truck was shifting canned tomatoes, but the guards made swift work of taking out those first four layers until the boxes changed to crates, each marked on the outside with a single code. Some boxes had the same code, then it changed a little farther back, and then changed again. Three codes for three of the buyers. No sign of a fourth.
“Pick a random crate on each code,” Mitchell ordered.
I gestured at the closest crate, and Guard-In-Charge passed me a crowbar, then went back outside. I examined the top for ingress, levered it open, shoving the lid to one side, revealing weapons. I checked the next set of codes, this time picking a crate towards the back. More guns. The last crates were different in design, but once I got inside, this time it was drugs.
“AZ3 is small arms and ammunition,” I confirmed to Mitchell. “AZ2 is a mix of small arms and Barrett 50-caliber rifles at first glance. AZ1 I’m guessing cocaine?”
