Page 25 of Shadow Dance

I don’t think I’ve been compromised, but I need to let my unit know something’s up in the event I don’t make it back tonight. Grabbing one of my burners from its hiding place in a cereal box, I send him a quick, coded message—Don’t forget Abuelita’s birthday—and return it to the pantry. Then, asking Our Mother of Perpetual Help to protect me, I tie on my boots and step out into the night.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in the back seat of Griffin’s blacked-out G-wagon, my gaze sweeping over West Oakland’s peaceful, dark streets. Griff and Roman are up front, smoking a blunt, and Callum’s beside me, his fingers drumming rhythmically to the bass-heavy beats filling the vehicle.

He’s been unusually quiet, his jaw set tight, an undercurrent of tension in the car like a fuse waiting to be lit. Roman reaches back,handing Callum the blunt. He hits it and passes it to me. I hit it and pass it back, but it doesn’t do much to settle me.

I still don’t know what this is about.

Eventually, we pull up to a strip mall where everything is closed for the night. Griff drives around to the back, to what looks like a loading dock, and parks next to two other cars. Callum gets out first, typing something into his phone before pocketing it.

Affecting a practiced, loose posture that belies my tightly bound nerves, I follow him and the boys into the building. My stomach plummets as my eyes adjust to the bright, fluorescent lighting. If the workstations, meat hooks, and walkin freezer are any indication, we’re in the back of a butcher shop. The scent of bleach lingers in the air and the floor is damp, as if recently mopped. Every instinct I have screams at me to be ready for anything, but I keep my cool.

A voice echoes from the far side of the room. “Over here, Cal.”

Three of Cal’s crew, guys I’ve seen around the house sometimes and at Quartz & Crystal, are standing guard over another two men sitting on the ground. I glance at their faces, but I don’t recognize them.

“Ignacio,” Callum says, stepping forward. “So glad you could make it. I know what a busy guy you are.”

The younger of the two men shifts uncomfortably, but the other stays still, his eyes trained emotionlessly on Callum. I’m guessing he’s Ignacio, and he’s either a sociopath or has a great poker face. Except for a steady drip coming from one of the sinks, the room is silent. Roman leans against the wall, picking at his nails.

“You know why you’re here, right?” Callum prods after a minute.

Ignacio never breaks his gaze. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“You broke my heart, man. I thought we were good.”

“What you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me why you tried to kill me,” Callum growls, balling his fists as he drops the happy-go-lucky act.

“It was nothing personal. You know how it goes,” Ignacio says. He looks resigned to his fate here tonight. “Just business.”

He’s right, but to be this blasé about imminent death is wild. Or maybe it’s admirable.

Callum cuts a glance at me, his sudden attention like a knife to the gut. “Know who this is?”

I shake my head, scanning the men’s faces one more time.

“The night we met,” he prods, gesturing. “Remember what happened in the Pink Room?”

My stomach tightens into a knot. “How could I forget?” Two masked men opened fire that night and I almost died for real.

“We have Ignacio to thank for that,” he says, his dark eyes going flat.

“Look,” the second man says shakily. He tries to stand, but one of Callum’s friends shoves him back down. “It was just a job. They were only supposed to scare you.”

“By hiring someone to shoot up his uncle’s club?” Griffin butts in, stepping closer. “With him in it? You almost killed him. You almost killed me!” He swings, sending the man flying back against the tiled wall as his fist crashes into his cheek.

“What I don’t get,” Cal says, face unreadable as he pulls a pair of brass knuckles from his jacket.Shit, he’s going old school. “Is how you could turn on us when your boss and my uncle go way back.”

Ignacio’s eyes narrow. “Your uncle know you been getting cozy with Feretti?”

Cal falters for a split-second before smoothing his expression, not expecting the callout. Ghost Feretti runs San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood, but he and Dario De Leon’s rivalry goes back to the eighties, when they fought over territory in the East Bay. When things got too bloody, and the Feds started moving in, a shaky truce was called. Feretti stayed in SF and Dario kept Oakland. It’s an uneasy peace, but it’s held.

So, why would Cal be fraternizing with the enemy? If it’s true, and I think it is, Cedro will definitely want to hear about this. It would back up his suspicions.

“Nobody’s cozying up to anybody.” Callum slips the brass knuckles onto his hand and steps forward. “Sounds like you got some bad info.”

That’s probably bullshit, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is what’s going down right here, right now. As relieved as I am that tonight has nothing to do with me, being involved in these men’s deaths isn’t something I want on my conscience. But I can’t intervene without blowing my cover.

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