Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90685 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90685 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“No, no. I want to cut a deal with you.”
I frown. “With me …”
“Yep. I’ll tell you everything I know as a favor to you. Because of our history.”
“We don’t have a history. We met once.”
Trav shrugs. “What can I say? It was an impressionable once.”
What is he playing at? “Tell me what you know.”
“Okay, so you need to look inside the limestone.”
“Inside …”
Trav nods.
“How do you propose we do that?”
“Crack open a block. You seem to have a lot of pent-up rage. Imagine how good it would feel to … pound it out.”
Does he have to sound so damn sexual?
“The drugs are inside the limestone,” I repeat. “Thanks.” I push back my chair.
“Wait, you’re leaving me in here?”
“You’re still under arrest for drug smuggling and a whole lot of other charges. Thanks for the … favor.”
“So you admit I did you a favor?”
Why does this feel like a trick question? “If your information is good, then yes. You did me a favor.”
Just as he sits back with a triumphant smile, the door opens, and SA Walker enters.
He looks unimpressed with me and then turns to Trav. “You’re free to go.”
“He’s what?”
Trav stands. “This was fun. We should do it again sometime.”
“What was fun? Were you playing me?”
“No, he wasn’t,” Walker says. “That’s where the drugs were, but he tipped off his ATF buddies before he left Mexico. They took over the search of the ship. This is their case now.”
“Even though it’s a massive drug shipment?”
“They’ve had these guys undercover for six weeks under the impression Carter was smuggling guns.”
“I’ve been on Jason Carter’s tail for two years,” I argue.
“I guess I’m able to get the job done quicker than others. You win some, you lose some.” Trav salutes us. “Until next time.”
Next time? There won’t be a fucking next time.
If I ever see Travis West again, it will be too soon.
Chapter Three
Dylan
NOW
As I pull my unmarked car around the back of a warehouse in Wilmington near the Port of Los Angeles, I contemplate calling for backup, but the credibility of my source is not ideal. Why shouldn’t I take it seriously when my CI is an addict who told me his cousin’s pimp’s landlord’s meth dealer was making a drop today?
At least, I think that’s what he told me.
Yeah, I’m not calling for backup for this.
“Hey, I’m at an abandoned lot on a tip from someone who was so high he thought I was Jesus reincarnate.”
This is taxpayers’ money at work.
I don’t even know which warehouse the drop is going to be. There’s two on this lot and no one in sight.
I park my car on the south side, hiding it from the entrance on the north.
In between the two abandoned spaces are old crates and rusted oil drums. If I can set myself up behind them, I can follow whichever warehouse my targets use.
I make sure the coast is clear before positioning myself on my ass in amongst all the junk. And now to play the waiting game. It’s incredibly likely I could be here all night.
The sun is beginning to cast midafternoon shadows from the buildings when someone rolls up in a pimped-out Camaro. I get into a crouching position so I can move quickly if I need to. He gets out of the car, and he immediately reminds me of that old Offspring song “Pretty Fly for a White Guy.” Total gangster wannabe who can’t pull it off.
His Adidas sweats make him look like he’s from the nineties, and his white tank top that’s supposed to be tight sits loose on his slim build. The prominent hollowed cheeks and black and purple bruises on the inner side of his arms tell me all I need to know.
Number one rule of being a drug dealer, kids: Never dip into your own stash.
In a gap between the oil drums, I take some photos of him with my phone and just hope one of them is good enough quality to run through facial recognition software.
He sits on the hood of his car and scrolls through his phone, but we aren’t kept waiting long.
Another car, a bright blue Subaru BRZ with a comically large spoiler, pulls into the lot and parks next to the Camaro. The setting sun hits the car at an angle that casts shadows across the windshield so I can’t see inside.
A guy in his early twenties—at most—gets out. He looks more put together than the other guy, but they both have to be college age.
If Hale has sent me to witness a misdemeanor trade-off, I’m going to be pissed.
But there’s something about the junkie’s demeanor as the kid in designer jeans and a polo shirt approaches him, and it sets me on edge.
He becomes withdrawn and submissive, keeping his eyes down, and he shivers as the other guy gets close to him.