Page 108 of Lucky Strike

We’re in my office at the townhouse. I called an emergency meeting with Donovan, Will, Heath, and Teddy to inform them that Ivan and Ilya Sokolov were behind the burglary and accident and are now dead. There hasn’t been any news, official or otherwise, so I’m assuming the bodies haven’t been found yet.

“Yes.”

“By your hand,” he affirms.

“Yes.” On one hand, I’m relieved we finally figured out and eliminated the threat. On the other, I don’t know who else knew that there was bad blood between us and the Sokolovs. Was it just Ivan and Ilya and their crew, or was the rest of their family involved? Fallout with the larger Bratva chapter could be disastrous.

“The Feds have been hanging around, investigating them, right?” asks Heath, typing out what looks like a whole damn missive on his phone. “What happens if they figure out you offed ‘em?”

“Forget the Feds—what happens if the rest of their family figures it out?” Teddyasks, voicing the same concern I’ve been having. “That’s my main concern at this point.”

Dad’s eyes find mine, and he jerks his chin. “You’re sure no one saw you?”

“One guard at the back door, but Tristan’s face was covered when he took him down. After that, nobody. We kept our masks on, didn’t run into anyone inside other than who we took out.” I mentally review the mission, trying to see areas where we might have fucked up, but it was solid. “We were in and out in under ten minutes.”

“What if they had cameras? What if one of their employees overheard something?” Heath cocks his head. “This is why you don’t go off half-cocked?—”

“Would you sit around jerking off if somebody tried to off your family?” I keep my voice calm despite the hurricane inside.

“What’s done is done,” Dad interjects, leveling Heath with a look. “Heath, you know better than to question him.”

Heath clears his throat, chastened. He wouldn’t have bitched at Dad if he was still in charge, and he knows it. We all know it. It reminds me that I still have work to do if I want to be taken seriously. My youth does me no favors, even if I have lived and breathed Saoirse my entire life.

“I’ll keep my ears open, Con, see where the investigation heads once the bodies are discovered,” Dad continues. “If things start getting sticky, I’ll make sure Ricky pushes the investigation in the right direction.”

Ricky is South Boston’s police captain. He’s also a childhood friend of my father’s, a man whose loyalties lie where we need them to. He and Dad have always had each other’s backs. My phone rings, a New Hampshire number. Excusing myself from the office, I step out into the hall to answer the call. “Yes?”

“This is Foxtail.” Or Francis, my contact at the New Hampshire manufacturer that provides most of the guns we sell.

“This is Thunderstorm. Line is secure.” I continue down the hall and down the stairs. “Is this about the January shipment?”

“No. It’s about an inquiry you made last month, concerning possible competition for the product.”

My heart skips a beat. “You said there hadn’t been anyone, right?”

“No, but I just realized that three of your most recent orders come in using a different IP address.”

Due to the nature of the underground gun trade, Francis works with a very small, elite group of clients. Everyone is vetted through a special process, and once trust is established, orders must be made from a dedicated IP address. Tracking numbers and code words are further used to verify identity. “Three of the orders?” I repeat. “How many do you have from us, total?”

“Seven.”

It’s like being smacked awake by ice-cold water. I falter, almost missing the last step in my surprise. “I’ve only put in four orders since March.”

“Hmm. Well, I might not have caught it, except one of those orders came in this morning,” he says. “Usually my assistant takes orders, but he’s sick so I jumped in. I was processing your order when I noticed the IP address. I compared it to the one in your order history and realized they didn’t match.”

Now my heart’s hammering. I sequester myself into the kitchen pantry, wanting complete privacy for this conversation. “I always use the same IP address, no matter what.”

“I figured.” He pauses. “Anyway, seeing that IP address this morning reminded me of your inquiry, so I reviewed your account and saw that three orders this year, including today’s, came in from that other address.”

“Fuck.”

“Right. We probably would’ve noticed sooner, but you’ve been clients for so long,” he explains. “We’ve never had to check anything past your code word.”

“And they had the code word?"

“Yeah. That’s another reason it didn’t raise any red flags before now.”

“Would you be willing to give me that IP address?” I ask. “I need to look into it.”

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