Page 7 of The Woman in the Warehouse

“Really, don’t worry about it,” I told her, forcing a smile I didn’t feel as my shirt brushed across my oversensitive burned skin. “I’m fine,” I told her as she turned to accept a replacement coffee from a concerned-looking barista.

“Again,” she said, frazzled, but checking her watch like she was late for something, “I’m so sorry,” she told me as she grabbed her coffee and ran out the door.

“You okay?” the same barista asked as she passed me my coffee.

“I’ll be fine,” I told her, nodding for emphasis, then making my way out to the truck I had parked down the side street.

It wasn’t the same, giant, clunky one I’d used back in the day to help Lorenzo out of a bind that had finally put me on his radar. As much as I loved that one, it would stand out way too fucking much on the city streets. This new one looked more like an SUV, but had a small truck bed in case I needed it to cart anything… messy around.

I didn’t have a lot of use for a vehicle in my daily life in the city. And it was probably financially irresponsible of me to pay for parking for it, but on occasion, it was nice not to have to ask Lorenzo or another capo to use of one of their cars when I needed one.

Like now.

For a fucking stakeout.

Whatever excitement I’d felt at the idea of getting a job of my own kind of fizzled out when I was told that all I would be doing was a little surveillance.

At first, I reminded myself. Lorenzo said that was all it would be at first. He had heard whispers about a Czech crew puffing their chests, and he wanted to know if it was something he actually needed to worry about, or if it was just a small crew who wanted control of a neighborhood.

And, of course, if they would kick-up to us.

If not, they had no right to take over a neighborhood, period.

So, yeah, I had a passenger floor well stocked with a cooler full of food, a couple bottles of water, my coffee, binoculars, and a discreet, but powerful, camera.

It was my first official stakeout.

I mean, sure, I’d sat outside of buildings and watched crews before, but mostly because my Family was inside.

This was different.

And I was determined to do a good job. Even if all I had to tell him was that this crew was a bunch of low-level guys who had no chance of becoming any sort of threat.

So there I was, parked at the end of the block of historic clapboard row houses in Washington Heights where Lorenzo’s intel said we could find these guys.

I dunno about for Lorenzo, but red flags immediately went up for me hearing that. Because, yeah, Washington Heights was more affordable than a lot of other neighborhoods in Manhattan, but these weren’t apartments. They were townhouses. They were houses.

I mean, no, they didn’t cost six or ten million like brownstones did in more in-demand areas, but they still cost, on the low end, a million.

Meaning that whoever this crew was, they weren’t new and they weren’t small-time.

Though from what I could tell as I sat there watching, though, there didn’t seem to be any scouts in the area. Typically, crews used kids for that task. Sometimes as young as ten, just riding up and down the block on their bikes, keeping an eye for anything suspicious, and ringing their bike bells if something felt off, tipping off their bosses to be aware.

Sure, it was school hours. But that never seemed to matter when there were kids from economically pressed families. They’d rather skip school and risk truant officers than miss out on the chance to make some desperately needed money.

But there were no kids, save for the trio of them that a woman shuffled into a double-stroller and one on her chest as she headed out… somewhere.

There weren’t any adults lingering around either.

Which was interesting.

Definitely seemed to go against the notion that they were a big crew, despite the expensive house.

Maybe backed from the old country, trying to establish a foothold in a notoriously profitable area for organized crime.

I flicked my newspaper, turning a page like I’d been doing occasionally every few minutes, wanting to appear like I was a man waiting for someone, not like I was casing the joint.

I’d even smiled and nodded at the woman who’d eyed me suspiciously as she passed. It would do no good if neighbors started to question my appearance here. Shit got around, even if you didn’t have scouts.

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