Page 14 of Irreversible

The smoky club air is replaced by a late October bite, sharpening my resolve. I look to my left, toward the main street, then in the other direction, down the alley, where the shadows move. In this unsavory part of town, there are always individuals wandering, some looking for trouble, others with nowhere else to go. Even at two in the morning.

Pulling a secondary cell phone out of my pocket, I bring up a number that can only lead to trouble, gazing at the clear, starry sky as it rings. Then I turn right.

It’s time to go hunting.

3

“Keep moving.” I give the guy in front of me a helpful shove.

Stumbling into the ravine, he barely avoids a face-first landing onto the muddy underpass. “What the hell, man?”

“Oh, yeah.” I yank the cloth bag off his head. “Watch your step.”

Red-rimmed eyes blink into the low light, his hollowed cheeks and greasy brown hair completing the look. Weasel, they call him on the streets, and not just because he resembles one. He’s the type whose loyalties are easily bought, which means he’s been used by the department as an informant more than once.

Choosing Weasel as bait was risky; if he’s seen me with the wrong person, he could make the connection. But with the bulk of my days undercover or hidden away in a back office, I’m taking the gamble that my identity is safe.

Came close to blowing that cover publicly during my confrontation with the congressman. Good thing the politicians hushed the encounter to save face.

My arm brushes the gun at my waist. If I’m wrong, I’ll be forced to improvise.

“Why ya got to be like this?” Whatever Weasel’s been taking slurs his words. “I didn’t do nothin’.”

He’s got a line of victims that would disagree.

I push him to his knees in the middle of the largest puddle. “Oh, you’ve done lots of things, my friend.”

That’s when he sees where I’ve brought him. “What the…” His pitch rises an octave. “You asshole. There are no women here. You set me up.”

He was sitting in the alley getting high with a minor when I got off the phone with my contact. The perfect patsy; might as well have come gift-wrapped. After shooting a message to Tanner to take care of the teenager, I told Weasel I knew some women who’d love to share their talents in trade for the stash of cocaine he was undoubtedly carrying.

Five minutes later, he was in the trunk of my car.

The guy’s a known child molester, among other things. I don’t feel sorry for him.

Scanning the graffiti-strewn concrete of the underpass, he spits. “Always had a feeling you were a pig. Turns out you’re a rat, too.”

Maybe he does know about my former employment, after all.

His face turns a shade of red so dark it’s nearly purple, eyes glassy with the combination of chemicals and good old-fashioned hatred. Fucker looks like he wants to tear my face off. Too bad his hands are cuffed behind his back.

I clutch my chest in mock offense. “A rat? Aw, that hurts,Weasel.” A grin spreads across my face. “I’d rather think of myself as more of a fox…in a henhouse.”

Jesus, when did this turn into an animal farm?

Weasel’s mouth opens, but the sound of tires grinding on crumbled asphalt interrupts his retort. His head whips around, the sneer collapsing when he sees a dark SUV headed our way.

“Squawk for me, Weasel.”

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, staring at the man getting out of the passenger’s seat in horror. Now he gets it.

After surveying the two of us with a stoic expression, my contact bends down enough to jerk his chin at someone in the car. The driver’s door opens, followed by one in the back.

That’s when Weasel loses his shit. “Wait…Dolph!” He struggles against his restraints. “Dolph! You don’t want me. It’shim.He’s a?—”

The butt of my pistol connects with the base of his skull, and he drops like a sack of potatoes. I blow out a breath. That was close.

My contact strides toward me with his puppets close behind. Not one of them blinks.

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