Page 61 of Ten

“Yeah.” Ten unscrewed the blue lid and placed the cup on the metal ledge by the urinal. He unzipped his pants, whipped out his dick, and then grabbed the cup. Even though Pete didn’t hover, it was still awkward as fuck to have another person staring at him while he tried to take a leak.

Finally, he managed to start a steady stream. He filled the cup to the line and then finished in the urinal. He screwed the lid back on the cup and handed it back to Pete who had put on a disposable exam glove. As he buttoned up and washed his hands, he kept an eye on Pete in the mirror.

His PO checked his watch and the cup a few times. “Negative across the board.”

“Can I go now?”

“Not yet.” Pete disposed of the urine and cup. He peeled off the glove and washed his hands at the sink. “I don’t get involved in the personal lives of my clients. When I was younger, I made the mistake of caring too much. I’m not getting burned like that ever again.”

“Okay?” Where the hell was he going with this? Pete had never been one to wax philosophical during their meetings.

“I know you’re with Nicky Jackson’s niece,” Pete said, catching his eye in the reflection. “The whole city knows it. It’s burning through the streets like wildfire. Nisha Jackson and the man who killed her serial killer ex-husband's child molesting partner.”

“When you put it like that,” Ten muttered distastefully.

“How else would I put it?” Pete turned to face him. “That girl has been through too much, Ten. She’s been through more than any person should, and I won’t have you fucking her life up with your bullshit.”

“I don’t need your permission to date, and I certainly don’t need you lecturing me on how to take care of the woman I love.”

Pete studied him for an agonizing moment. “All right, son.”

“All right?”

“Yeah. Come on. I need to show you something.”

Confused and apprehensive, Ten shadowed Pete back into the office. His PO shut and locked the door and then gestured for Ten to take a seat. He walked over to one of the dented filing cabinets lining the far wall and opened the third drawer. He yanked out a fat, stained, and faded file. “Here.”

“What is this?” Ten accepted the file and realized it held information on two men—Adrian Umansky and Tony Guerrero.

“I worked on the probation side before I moved to parole. Those two idiots were in and out of my office as soon as they were old enough to be tried as adults. Can’t tell you how many times I had to chase down those two for violations and revocations.” Pete leaned back against his desk. “I keep detailed notes.”

“So I see,” Ten replied, flipping through the pages in the files. “What am I looking for?”

“I’m not sure,” Pete admitted, “but if there’s something that will help Nisha in there, you can have it.”

Ten wasn’t exactly sure this was legal, but far be it from him to turn down an offer of help, no matter how shady it might be. “Thank you.”

“Get that back to me when you have a chance.”

“Will do.”

“Go on. Get out of my office.”

Ten grabbed one of the red tote bags that was given out to newly paroled ex-cons from the basket by the door. He stuffed the file inside between the pamphlets for AA and accessing food banks. Out in the waiting room, he scanned the space for Ruby, but she was either with her PO or already on her way back to the Warehouse.

He left the building with the tote bag dangling from his fingers. What would he find in Pete’s notes? The possibilities rattled around his brain as he walked to the parking lot. He used the remote start to cool down the interior of the SUV so he didn’t roast. At least Kostya didn’t skimp out when he made arrangements for the getaway fleet.

Ten spotted the kid who had tried to fleece him. Apparently, he had been demoted to picking up trash and directing traffic after his stunt. Ten didn’t mind the kid trying to make a quick buck. That was the name of the game on the streets, but there were rules. The kid was stupid to try something like that right under his uncle’s nose.

Refusing to think about the stupid scams he had tried when hustling as a kid, Ten unlocked the door of the Suburban, tossed the tote bag onto the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel. He hit the lock button out of habit and reached over to adjust the flow from the A/C vents. As he did, he suddenly smelled something out of place.

Sweat. Mint. Suavitel fabric softener.

The steely bite of a pistol jammed into the side of his neck. The lethally sharp tip of a knife nicked just below his ear.

Ten held perfectly still. This wasn’t the time to try to fight back. Not yet. He was one twitchy finger away from a cold slab at the morgue.

His gaze flicked to the rear-view mirror. A strange man crouched behind his seat, his face mostly hidden. He gripped a matte blackFN Five-seveN. Belgian gun. Used by the Mexican military.

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