AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"Neptune has been contacting me."
He shrugged. "Nothing new."
"Wait—he's been reaching out to you too?"
"I'm the intel guy."
"Wait, what? Miguel, did you know about Omar being in Oakmont?"
Miguel didn't bat a single eyelash. "I may have helped find his coordinates."
"You—" I spluttered. "You've been working with him? You gave him intel?"
"I'm the tech guy," he replied, looking like a parent tolerating his very unruly child. "And I wasn't going rogue. He wanted some info, I gave it to him."
"Thunder," I groaned, almost launching myself at him. But I knew that wouldn't work out well for either of us. Between him and me, he was the one who was usually packing. I was stronger, but I had nothing on his temper.
He'd actually gotten into a fight with one of our clients and almost pummeled the shit out of him before Reed and I could defuse the situation.
The fucker had deserved it—we'd found out he was using us to get intel on a girl he wanted to stalk. But it'd cost us money and a clever way of handling the situation. Not that Miguel had cared.
"Why did you do it?" I asked, resigned to the situation. If he'd done this, there was an underlying motive.
"Do you think anything else will ever give Skipper the closure he needs?"
I stared at him blankly.
"I have the coordinates. You and I, we can go there. Hunker down and see what that shithead is up to. Reed doesn't need to know, not tonight."
I looked inside the kitchen. Reed and Juniper were sitting beside the table of sins, laughing as they talked about something. He was showing her a picture on his phone, likely of Leia.
Hell, if Juniper turned out to be a bad seed, we'd be there to cushion the blow for him.
Just like we'd be there for him when it came to Omar. If he was in Oakmont, hewouldmeet Reed. It was fuckin’ fate, and even I couldn't rewrite that shit. If I could gun it down, I would—but that wasn't in the cards.
I sighed. "Fine. Time to pull out the old Honda Accord."
And find out what the fuck Omar was up to in Oakmont, of all places, that slimy little fucker.
23
Miguel
Paladin's Honda Accord was the pride and joy of his stakeout arsenal.
We had been in many fancy rides, but a man always needed a singular car to come home to. For him, this was it. We didn't even use the sedan for our routine work across town.
Oh, no, this baby was reserved for special occasions only. A.K.A. stakeouts.
There was a story to go with it that would make the most jaded undercover op chuckle. Paladin had picked up the Accord from a seedy used car dealer in downtown Oakmont from a little garage calledSpare Parts.
I had an idea that the spare parts didn't just refer to cars—the dealer probably kept knick-knacks from all the people who'd been murdered right on the spot. The only thing that shone brighter than the headlights on the cars were the gold chains hanging around the salesman's neck.
Asher had to admit he loved that car, even if it did have a few quirks.
The passenger-side door squeaked like a rusty gate every time he opened it, and the radio only picked up one station, which played nothing but classic country hits. But it was his car, and he'd be damned if anyone else was going to lay a finger on it.
Downtown was a hotbed of illegal activity. You name it, they had it—drug and money laundering, extortion, the odd murder, the odder flesh trade—there was a bit of flavor from everything.
