Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
“There’s been a sharp increase in kidnappings—kids and women disappearing off the streets, some in broad daylight,” Preacher continued, his voice tight with frustration. “So far, two boats have been intercepted, but we were too late for most of the victims on board. And that’s not all, drug-related deaths have spiked. The FBI believes the Venezuelans are making another move to control distribution. Evidence points to them being behind bad batches circulating the streets. Just yesterday, a group of college students was found dead in a frat house. The drugs they bought were laced with rat poison—one of Veneno’s calling cards.”
The name made my head snap up. Veneno.
Duke’s first job for me had been to investigate a trafficking ring in Belize tied to them. They had been smuggling girls, some as young as fourteen, to a Boko Haram trafficking network. Sharkey and I had spent months following that lead, and what we uncovered had shattered whatever remaining innocence I’d had left. Since that day, fighting that war had become a personal mission. Anytime a trafficking operation needed handling, my name was the first on the list. I tracked the major players, but new ones were always surfacing. Still, the Veneno were different. I knew them like I knew my own scars.
Beside me, Data hit a key, and the projector in the center of the table whirred to life, casting a detailed map onto the wall beside Duke. Routes, names, connections—it was all there.
“Why the fuck would they do that if they’re trying to control distribution?” a biker across the room demanded, his brows furrowed.
It was a good question, and one I already had an idea about.
“Think about it,” Jagger spoke up, his voice steady and confident. “Spread the bad shit around, use your own guys to deal the good shit, and watch as the competition collapses. When other dealers start losing business because no one trusts their supply, you take over their territory. It’s a basic control method—eliminate the competition without firing a single shot.”
The biker across from him grunted, skepticism thick in his tone. “Sounds fucked up to me. If it were me, I’d flood the streets with the good shit. Get everyone hooked, make them crave it, and be known for selling the best.”
It was logical on the surface. But I already knew the flaw in that plan.
“But then you still have competition,” I cut in before Jagger could respond. “Say the bad batches are laced with poison and no one knows where they’re coming from, but you’ve got a reputation for pure product? Dealers will abandon the others and come to you. Less risk and guaranteed quality. It’s psychological warfare as much as it is business.”
Jagger nodded. “Exactly.”
Before anyone else could chime in, Duke’s voice carried across the room. “Jagger’s right. The Veneno don’t just want a piece of the market, they want the whole damn thing. And they’re willing to wipe out anyone who stands in their way.”
His gaze swept the room, pausing just long enough on each face to make sure everyone was paying attention. It was a tactic he’d mastered, holding a room in the palm of his hand without ever needing to raise his voice.
“Yesterday, the rest of Indigo had the chance to meet the Knights. Kyle and Match have just returned and are joining us now,” he continued, nodding in our direction.
I felt the weight of several pairs of eyes shifting onto me, some curious, some skeptical. No doubt a few of them were wondering what the hell I was doing in a room full of hardened bikers and operators. Duke must have noticed, because his grin widened slightly before he spoke again.
“I can see some of you wondering what Kyle’s doing here. Let me explain.”
Behind him, the projector flickered to life, and footage from our bodycams and the helo-cam began playing on the wall. Because of his status and reputation, Duke had clearance to review all mission recordings, and this wasn’t the first time he’d used them to showcase our skills to clients. The only difference now was that our audience consisted of bikers who probably assumed I was a secretary.
Data had been the one to compile the reel, and I smirked when I heard the opening chords of Linkin Park’s Iridescent play over the footage. Subtle, Data. Real subtle. The Indigo guys knew me well—when I was waiting or needed to focus on a target, I often hummed random songs under my breath. Everyone had their own method of centering themselves. One of the SAS guys I’d worked with hummed the British national anthem before he took a shot. Seriously, the British special forces were a riot.
The footage rolled, showing me sliding into the cockpit of the Raider helicopter. That machine was my baby. It hadn’t even been rolled out for military use yet, but Indigo had secured a lease to test it in live operations. Fast, agile, and built like a damn dream, it had been fully customized to suit our needs.