Page 14 of Suspicious

I glance at Montana, and we both groan. “Fucking hell, this guy is a goddamn moron,” I murmur.

Montana smirks, tilting his head. “Yeah, no shit,” he growls under his breath as Atlas manages to get the truck started again and then pulls out onto the street, this time with a much smoother pass.

“Okay, Ink, take us out,” I instruct. Ink starts the van, and we’re off, following in behind Alpha’s van.

The drive toward the cartel headquarters takes a little bit of time, especially with dipshit up ahead driving the truck like a fucking grandma. But by the time Atlas starts drawing closer to the location, another wave of static blasts over the walkie. Switching to channel four, I wait for the incoming instructions.

“Reaper Two, this is Reaper One. We’re going to hang back from the perimeter. The location is coming up, so when the payload makes a left up here, we will fall back, and park along the street. I have vision inside the cab here too, so I can see what you’re seeing, Reaper Two. Over.”

“Understood, Reaper One. We will follow your lead. I await your signal. Over.”

The line goes quiet, and as I glance out the front of our van, I spot Alpha’s pull to the side of the road. Ink follows soon after, pulling our van off to the edge as well. Drawing in a long breath, I shift to the seat in the back of the van and pull out my device, watching Atlas from inside the cab. I switch on the volume so we can hear him, and the other guys crowd around me so we can all watch this unfold.

Montana slides in beside me, his knee bobbing up and down anxiously, and I give him a reluctant smile. “This is going to work… it has to.” I try to calm his obviously racing thoughts.

He runs his fingers through his red hair. “Atlas has a way of fucking everything up. If he makes this situation with the cartel worse for us—”

I raise my brow at him, gesturing for him to stop. “Alpha and I have planned this out. We have been working on this shit for months behind the scenes. All Atlas has to do is get the truck inside the compound. After that, he can do whatever the fuck he wants to do because that is wherewetake over. We’ve got this, Montana.”

He nods his head with a weak smile. “Then let’s finally take out these cartel assholes and Atlas at the same fucking time.”

A grin spreads across my face as I take out my cell, placing it on the bench seat beside me. Then, I turn back to the device in front of me, watching Atlas pulling up to the cartel compound gates. “Showtime. Let’s see how he does.”

My heart races as I gnaw on my bottom lip, hoping like hell we get this done. A guard looks up at the truck. Noting it’s one of theirs, he runs a tracker tracer underneath the rig, and I tense, but it clears, and then the guard signals for Atlas to drive on through.

“Here we go,” I murmur under my breath, sitting a little taller.

Atlas drives the truck through the compound over to where the other wine trucks are parked. At least he has the common sense to do that. He pulls the rig up, and instantly, a couple of cartel soldiers step up to his window, raising their guns.

He rolls down his window and plasters on a bright smile. “I’m here to drop off the shipment to Ricco from Tijuana,” he states, exactly as we told him to.

The cartel guys look at each other, furrowing their brows. “We were told that shipment was delayed by a couple of days, so how the fuck did you make up that much distance?” The soldier aims his gun right at Atlas, but he chuckles, shaking his head, and shifts the gun from his face like he doesn’t give two shits.

“Who the fuck told you it was delayed?” he snaps.

“Jorge back in Tijuana. He told us you got the delivery onto the truck late, and then there was an issue with a flat tire along the way?”

Atlas snorts out a laugh, rolling his shoulders. “Fucking Jorge doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about half the time. The guy’s too busy smoking the stuff to really know what is going on. Am I right?”Atlas takes the conversation into a life of its own. The problem is these cartel guys can smell a rat a mile away.

The other cartel soldier signals to more of their men, and they begin walking over to the truck, Atlas’ eyes widen, beginning to show a little of the fear clearly seeping through him.

The soldier he has been talking to lifts his gun again, his eyes narrowing on Atlas. “Is there a reason why you’re wet inside that truck?” he asks.

Atlas glances down, seeing his clothes still completely soaked from when we sprayed him down with the hose, and he chuckles. “I pulled over to get some snacks back near Anaheim, and would you believe it, a freak fucking rainstorm hit. Drenched me completely as I was walking back to the cab.”

I snort out a laugh while the other guys smirk. “This asshole has an answer for everything.” I snicker, and Montana huffs.

“That’s why he ended up as the leader of a drug gang. The gift of the gab.”

We all nod as the soldier grins, looking at his fellow cartel members before they begin to corral around the truck. In the distance from the warehouse, I see a door open and a man walking toward them. His suit is immaculate, and his stance is full of arrogance, while another two men flank him. My eyes widen, and my pulse instantly skyrockets. I rush to pick up my walkie, checking to ensure it’s on channel four. “Reaper One, are you seeing this? Over,” I blurt down the line, some franticness about my tone.

The rest of the guys stare at the screen, the tension in the air reaching a critical level as we all stare at the man himself.

Static cracks over the walkie, and heavy breathing follows. “Reaper Two, I see and can confirm our target. Hold steady for the signal. Over.”

My muscles tense as Ricco Rojas steps up in front of Atlas’ truck, not making any contact with Atlas, simply letting his men continue their interrogation as he stands back. His men flanking his sides.

The soldier outside Atlas’ door positions the tip of his gun, more toward Atlas’ head now in a threatening gesture. “You got caught in a rainstorm… in LA… in July?” the soldier clarifies.

---