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“You know I prefer the good stuff.”
“Oh yeah. Cigar smoker.” He bobbed his head.
“That’s right.” He didn’t actually enjoy smoking much at all—he only did it for show. He might be one of the Disciples, but he did all of it on his own terms.
Bones parked behind the church. The few lights out front gleamed in the darkness, and Bones cut the headlights before they turned into the parking lot.
“This is it. Just do what I tell you.” Bones jumped out of the van.
“Got it.” Jennings followed.
As soon as they were inside, the scent of candlewax and old paper flooded Jennings’s senses. The place was silent as the grave. Bones led the way down a corridor and into one of the rooms. He snapped on a light.
Jennings glanced around.
The space was filled with boxes and crates. Plastic totes were stacked along a wall. What they contained was anybody’s guess, but he and Sentry believed that drugs were being moved through this very church and that the man masquerading as a pastor was behind it all.
Bones waved at the crates. “We’ve got to move all this.”
Jennings walked around the boxes, already scoping out a spot to plant a voice-activated recording device. Tucking one under the baseboard molding seemed like a good option, as did concealing it in the slats of the window blind.
He looked to Bones for direction. “Where do we move it to?”
He walked to a door across the room. When he swung it open, Jennings’s breath came faster.
Two coffins were lined up side by side. Sentry knew drugs were being transported by way of coffins and a couple hearses, two things the authorities didn’t look closely at.
“We move the boxes into that room with the coffins?” Jennings acted dumb.
“No—dump the contents of the boxesintothe coffins.”
Before he could respond, a guy with lank brown hair and a pinched face like a weasel walked in, ignored Jennings and settled his stare on Bones.
“You good to go, man?” The weasel looked as antsy as an addict.
“I gotta take a piss. Jay, you get started.” Bones tilted his head toward the boxes.
Weasel walked back out and Jennings trailed behind. As soon as he stepped into the space, he spotted trouble.
A woman huddled in the corner as far away from the coffins as possible. She was thin—too thin. He’d seen enough club girls who abused drugs to know when that was the issue, but he’d say that wasn’t the case here.
Her hair was too shiny. While pale, her skin radiated health.
He looked her over closer. Her hair was deep brown, like the toasted pecan pies his gramma used to bake for holidays. The locks were damp, the ends drying and fluffier than the rest.
When she lifted her gaze to his—and immediately slid it away—he noted the dark bruises under each.
Fuck. He knew the look of fear and exhaustion all too well.
Weasel shoved open the lid of a coffin and dumped the contents of one box into it. Baggies of cocaine slid against the satin lining.
Jennings ripped open the flaps of his box and followed suit. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman’s hands clench into fists.
She looked shaken. Who wouldn’t be, witnessing such a thing?
The weasel turned his head to look at her. She thrust her chin high and squared her shoulders.
Jennings and Weasel went back and forth between rooms, filling the coffins with drugs.
