Page 90 of Rook

“He’s a jailhouse snitch,” Colter explained. “Doesn’t have a loyal bone in his body.”

“Okay. Yeah, he’s out,” Slash said, tossing his file onto the dining table. “What about the others?”

I flipped to the next paper, getting vague flashbacks to seeing the guy’s hawk-like face, but coming up blank.

I mean, the prison was a big place. And while most people got to know some of the larger-than-life characters no matter what cell block you were living in, a lot of the other guys who kept to themselves just became faces in the crowd.

“I dunno. I guess he’s… fine,” Colter said.

“Why just fine?”

“I just remember that anytime there was some drama going on, he had his hand in it. I guess that means he’s well-connected, but maybe you’d want to consider what would drive someone to always want to be involved in shit like that?”

“Okay. Noted. We will discuss it further once we’re done with everyone else. Next?”

“Oh, yeah, no,” Judge said, shaking his head at the next one.

“Why not?” Slash asked, looking a little off-put.

“See his last name?” Judge asked.

“O’Malley?” Slash read, not making the connection.

“He’s a cousin to the Murphy brothers,” Judge explained, knowing the scoop since he was married to Delaney Murphy. “I mean, you could make him the offer, but he’s gonna choose family.”

“Fuck,” Slash said, sighing. “Okay. Well, I don’t have high hopes for the last one then, I guess.”

I flipped to the last page and felt my brows immediately raise.

My gaze slid to Coach and Colter, but found blank looks on their faces.

“Anyone?” Slash asked.

“Saint Courtland?” I asked, hearing the damn fanboy awe in my own voice.

“You know him?”

“I know of him. He was always a recluse. But his reputation preceded him.”

“What reputation? He went away for obstruction…” Slash said.

“He went away for not rolling on his little brother. He was offered immunity. He tore up the free pass and did five years, so his brother didn’t do ten.”

“Okay. For what? What was the brother in?”

“What wasSaintin, is the better question. Saint was a smuggler. Word was, no one around had the kind of smuggling routes he had. And he was able to ghost shipments—fake manifests, shit like that. Heard a rumor that he once drove a stash of semiautomatics out of a cartel compound in a hearse.”

“How?”

“By picking up a dead body there too.”

“What’d he do with the body then?” Slash asked.

“Dropped it off in front of the funeral home he was supposed to be from. His name is… ironic,” I said, shrugging.

“Have you heard any other rumors about him?” Detroit asked from the kitchen, where he was pulling meat out from the freezer to thaw in the fridge.

“I mean, it’s hard to know truth from stories inside. But I can do some more digging on him, see what I can find about in online spaces.”

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