Page 15 of Irreversible

Dolph Larsson is a Scandinavian transplant, also known as the Viking. Renowned for his skill in acquisitions, he knows how to find the people with more money than morals who will pay for all manner of fucked-up things. He sources his “products” from all over, but with the surge of black-market organizations spreading through this region of the United States, there’s plenty of work to be found.

Simply put, he’s a freelancer, a middleman, and, after tracing the string of kidnappings, I’ve developed a theory. If I were a betting man, I’d wager Dolph and his crewacquiremany of the people who have been disappearing. That’s why I need to get in with him first. Then I’ll find out who he’s supplying and offer my services directly.

Once I’m inside, I’ll take them apart piece by piece.

He strolls toward me with measured steps, stopping when his boots touch Weasel’s nose. Running his tongue overyellowed teeth, he evaluates me, stretching the silence out like a rubber band. It’s an intimidation tactic I’m familiar with. On most people, it would be effective, but you have to give a shit about your safety to be intimidated.

I’m way past that.

My heart drums a steady beat. There’s nothing to do but stand here with an unfazed expression while Dolph takes my measure. The butterflies in my stomach are only because I’m winging it. I’m used to being prepared.

“Nick.” His accent gives his voice a lilt that doesn’t match his appearance. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

That’s my go-to alias in these circles. I was on the force the last time I dealt with Dolph, facilitating a weapons deal that mysteriously went bad at the last minute. Whoops. Rumor had it thatNickwas behind bars for a few weeks when it all went down, which kept my cover intact.

Still, I need to tread carefully.

“Been busy.” I smile grimly. “You know how it is.” Better to stay vague, rather than risk talking too much. That’s how you can tell people are making shit up; they keep babbling until they babble themselves right into the ground.

“Ah. Busy. Right.”

I know his game; the trick is to wait it out. Show him I’m in control. My concern is I lost track of his two companions, and there’s no way to look around without taking my eyes off their boss.

We stare each other down for several minutes.

I cock my head.

You don’t scare me, asshole.

He breaks first. “You say you’ve got something I want?”

“Would I call you out here in the middle of the night for no reason?”

A grunt. “What’s with this?” Dolph pokes the guy sprawled out at our feet with his toe.

Snagging street trash like Weasel was a long shot, but surely the guy’s got somethingsomeoneneeds. A good kidney, maybe. “Word on the street says you’ve got a client who needs a guy for a thing.” An educated guess on my part. “He volunteered.”

That earns me a full snort. “He double-cross you or something?”

“Eh, you know.” I smirk. “Weasels will be weasels.”

“And what are you expecting out of this?” There’s a flash of movement to my left. I dare to break eye contact with Dolph enough to glance behind him, where I catch a glimpse of the blond-haired driver. Still no sign of the other guy.

“Call it an offering of good faith.” My mouth dries. It’s next to impossible to make anything out amid the shadows. “And a proposal.” A lift of bushy eyebrows is his only response, so I continue. “Rumor has it, you’ve got someone big buying these days.”

“Rumors, eh?”

Gravel crunches behind me. My gut hardens. This was a bad idea. I didn’t do the prep work. But it’s too late to go back; I can only forge on and do whatever’s necessary to make it out of this. My fingers twitch at my side. “I’m getting bored with the usual. Might be time to branch out. Thought you might need a partner.”

“Tempting.” His eyes flicker to something behind me. “You’re right about one thing: I am looking to fill a specific order for a very important client. But there’s one problem.”

“What’s that?” On the surface, our conversation seems casual, but it’s the subtext—the body language, the shady associates creeping around—that have the red flags waving. One wrong move could get me shot, so I hold my ground and play the part. My muscles tense, ready to reach for my gun.

“Your product,” he spits right on top of Weasel, “doesn’t fit the requirements.”

That’s because I was more concerned with grabbing a guy who didn’t leave a ding on my conscience. I’ve still got morals, they’re just a little looser than they used to be. It’s not like I’m risking an innocent.

Besides, this gets one more criminal off the streets. I call that a win-win.

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