Page 72 of Crown of Lies

His expression darkens at my question. He leans back in his chair, his good eye fixed on a point somewhere beyond me.

“Your father was always working on something, kid. Man had more secrets than the CIA.” He pauses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But if there was something specific, something big… he kept it close to the vest.”

I nod, trying not to let my disappointment show. It’s not like I expected Dylan to have all the answers, but I’d hoped for more than this.

“What about Casey?” he asks. “He and your dad were thick as thieves back in the day. If anyone knew what Jonah was up to, it’d be him.”

I exchange glances with a couple of my older guys who have been around for a while—guys who knew my uncle—before turning back to Dylan. “Casey’s dead,” I say quietly.

The old man’s face falls, genuine sorrow etching itself into the lines around his eye. “Damn,” he mutters. “I didn’t know. When did it happen?”

“It’s been a while,” I reply, feeling a fresh wave of grief threatening to wash over me. Not just for my uncle, but for my dad too. I don’t let it show, but damn—it’s one of those feelings that sneaks up fast and sticks around for a while, just under the surface. “In prison.”

Dylan shakes his head, looking truly shaken. “I knew he was locked up, but I had no idea…” He trails off as if lost in thought for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear it. Casey was a good man in spite of the hand he was dealt.”

I lean back on the worn couch, feeling the weight of disappointment settle over me. “I’ve been chasing every lead I can think of,” I admit, huffing out a frustrated breath. “Old contacts, business associates, even some of his old enemies. But it’s like trying to catch smoke. Every time I think I’m getting close, it just slips away.”

Dylan nods, his good eye studying me. He’s quiet for a long moment, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head.

“You know,” he says finally, leaning forward in his chair, “there might be someone else you could talk to. Have you considered Casey’s old cellmate?”

I blink, caught off guard by the suggestion. “His cellmate?”

“Yeah. Those relationships, they can become like brothers. Especially for guys like Casey, doing hard time. He might’ve shared things with his cellmate that he never told anyone else.”

The idea hits me like a bolt of lightning. I’ve been so focused on the fact that I couldn’t ask my uncle directly, I never considered the people he might have confided in during his time inside.

“That’s actually a really good idea,” I say, feeling a spark of hope for the first time in a long time. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

Dylan shrugs, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Sometimes it takes an outside perspective. And I’ve had plenty of time out here to think about things from every angle.”

I stand up, energized by this new lead. “Thank you, Dylan. Really. This could be exactly what I needed.”

He waves off my thanks, but I can see a hint of pride in his expression. “Just be careful, kid. Whatever your old man was mixed up in, he should’ve had a whole bunch of good years ahead of him. Don’t let the same thing happen to you.”

I nod, taking his warning to heart. “I will. And thanks again for your help.”

The mood is light on the ride back into the city, with everyone buzzing about the possibility of a new lead. I’m in the passenger seat and Remy is behind the wheel, with the other three guys crammed in the backseat.

Suddenly, Remy’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Shit. We’ve got company.”

I look in the side mirror and my stomach drops. Three black SUVs are closing in fast, one on each side and one behind us.

“Fuck.” Instinctively, I start reaching for my gun. “Guys, we’ve got trouble.”

The SUVs pull up alongside us, boxing us in. My pulse races as I realize we’re trapped.

“Ram ’em!” I shout, but Remy is already trying. He swerves, attempting to force our way out, but they’re too well coordinated.

Gunshots ring out, shattering our rear window. Glass sprays everywhere as we all duck down.

“Return fire!” I yell, rolling down my window and leaning out. The wind whips my hair as I squeeze off a few rounds, aiming for their tires.

My guys in the back are shooting too, cursing and shouting as they try to drive our attackers away. But it’s not working. For every hit we land, they seem to have two more cars ready to take its place.

“We can’t shake them!” Remy growls, his knuckles white on the wheel as he weaves back and forth in the lane, desperately searching for a way to escape.

I see an opening and point. “There! Cut across?—”

---