Page 43 of Small Town Secrets

He gave her an understanding nod. She gave Whitney one last kiss. The shuddering metallic sound of the garage opening announced her parents’ arrival, and she joined Ramos in standing.

Maybe she didn’t know a great deal about him or his work, but she did know he was nothing like Mike. Ramos showed up for her time and time again, and in ways Mike never had. That alone deserved some of her trust. Or at least a second chance.

Her parents knocked at the front door, and she moved to let them in, only for Adrian to catch her hand and spin her toward him. While she remained startled, he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, melting away days of tension.

“I should be back before you return. I’m looking forward to that talk.”

Around midnight, Adrian pulled his car over in front of a small cabin across state lines in North Dakota. His heart beat rapidly as he positioned the vehicle to remain concealed along the edge of some woods.

The outside world carried no signs of human life, just the incessant chirp of night insects. Keeping his movements as silent as possible, he cracked his door open and snuck closer to the property’s perimeter, searching for a decent vantage point and somewhere to hide.

This was an unauthorized visit, a risk he took based on an unreliable tip-off. His skin prickled at the expanse of land between the cabin and the road. Plenty of open space for him to get caught, but with a small ornamental garden located yards from the front porch and a leafy lattice wall that could work as a barrier between him and whoever might be inside.

His protectiveness over Laila and Whitney had kept him from this investigation long enough, while another part of him feared he might succeed at cracking this small piece of the syndicate puzzle. If the syndicate fell, so did his reasons for being in town. With the shaky ground he already stood on with Laila, there seemed nowhere the relationship would go after that.

But he needed to put his personal reasons aside for the good of everyone. So here he was, huddled against a floral archway and focused on his job, searching for any signs that might put this whole awful ordeal to rest.

A set of cream curtains sat open in the front-window, the cabin’s interior holding an expected sense of country-comfort. The egg-shell blue walls held many landscape paintings, those walls also lined with a couple of dark wood shelves stacked with books and decorative ceramics. Though his far-off position kept him from seeing much, if he were lucky, someone would walk past, and he would get confirmation his journey today hadn’t been wasted.

That said, if confirmation took too long, he would have to risk venturing even closer. While he waited, he chanced a look at the driveway and double-checked there were no cars. Not that that meant much. The place had a double garage, but the lights on inside were a good indication he would get what he’d come for, despite the discomfort of cold nipping at his face. He would wait. Hours if he had to.

But just as that possibility crossed his mind, a man with a close-shaven head stepped into view inside. Someone who looked familiar. But not his target. This man stopped to peer through the window, his dark gaze sweeping over the world outside. Currently Adrian’s world. Ramos held still, his hand instinctively dropping to his unclipped gun on his hip holster.

The man inside lifted his hands, grabbing the curtain’s inner edges as though set to tug them closed, his focus still set on the yard. Just then, his stare locked onto Ramos. His hands paused. As did the rest of him. Though Ramos’s pulse thudded loud in his ears, this man seemed to take a moment, as if weighing what to do.

Adrian didn’t want to be the first to start a gunfight. Not when he was yet to spot his target. But the man before him was at least good enough at his job to have been looking for, and spotted, Ramos. So, maybe there would be no choice on that matter.

More seconds passed and the man kept his hands high and in plain view. A good sign that got even better as he tilted his chin upward in an admission that Ramos’s intel had been correct.

Mark’s men were tired of being pulled into his blood wars.

They sought to make a sacrifice.

The man inside dropped his hands and turned, leaving the curtains agape in an open invitation for Ramos to keep on looking. Within minutes another figure strode past the window. A man with thick, brown wavy hair and distinctive blue eyes. The man Adrian had come in search of.

Mark Farro.

Twenty-Six

An hour later, Ramos held his position by the garden arch as the three white FBI vans he’d called in rolled to a stop outside Mark’s cabin. Within seconds, agents poured out and stormed across the long yard. Some circled to the back of the cabin, while others went straight to the front door carrying a black metal battering ram.

The timber splintered and burst after just a few strikes. One agent called for any inhabitants to come out with their hands high and visible. For long seconds no one replied.

Guns drawn, the agent in command raised a hand, and some personnel behind him advanced into the building. Meanwhile, another agent stood yards away from Ramos, a crew of even more agents nearby like a second battalion ready to back up the first. Shouts came from inside the house, though no shots were fired. A suspenseful few seconds passed before an announcement cut through a radio that two people had surrendered and the investigative team could start rolling in.

The lead agent moved the remainder of his team in, but not before acknowledging Ramos with a nod to go in too. Even before Ramos got inside the cabin, a closer look through the front window showed the small space crammed with FBI. All areas of the property appeared swarmed with agents combing for evidence and information. Some cameras clicked, while others recorded video footage of the scene. Every drawer, every closet, every box had someone engaged in a search for further proof.

Occasionally, an agent filed out carrying a laptop or various piles of paper. Every so often, a bagged-up weapon would file past too. Handguns. Rifles. Knives. All brought here to protect Farro and his bodyguard, now just more things to incriminate him.

A solemn silence descended,and the sound of heavy footsteps had Ramos joining the vigil. The thunderous noise came from a short corridor adjoining the living room Ramos stood in. Farro’s guard from the window earlier came out surrounded by several agents, his hands cuffed behind his back. Ramos stood aside to make some room, but the man’s stare sought him as he called over the crush of people, “You’ll vouch for me, right?”

The crush hurtled past, not allowing Ramos time to answer, though the guard twisted his head long enough for Adrian to offer a deep nod that when it came to any criminal trials, he would speak on this man’s help in locating Farro.

After all, Adrian’s brief time parading as a syndicate member had gifted him chances to befriend enough people there. Some not totally disagreeing with the part he’d played in Luciano Conti’s arrest.

And yes, “befriend” was too strong a word. No one in the context of the syndicate were “friends.” Not in an organization built on greed and taking advantage. Most people there were muscle for hire, hanging on for no other reason than to keep that machine running because they liked the money or couldn’t escape. Chances were that Farro’s bodyguard was far from the only man who wanted out. But examples such as the violent manhunt that unfolded after Dean Holloway’s escape served as a cautionary tale of how little syndicate leaders cared about anyone’s freedom.

Though Ramos never got close enough to make direct contact with Mark Farro, he’d still gathered leads and favor with those on the inside. He’d funneled information and incentives through his syndicate connections. Drawn closer and closer to those protecting Mark, enough to home in on this cabin in rural North Dakota.

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