Page 38 of Unmade

“He just happened to overhear something in a bar?” I questioned. Stranger things had happened, but it still seemed random.

“To be fair, it’s a bar known to be used for illegal activity,” Shira said. “It also looks like there’s a connection between his assignment and this one. Hahn’s crew is there to expand their trafficking operations.”

I released a breath. We’d been waiting for that. We’d seen signs of trafficking ops in Somalia too, but we’d had too little to go on. And we knew they weren’t focusing solely on the coke trade. No one had a niche anymore.

“Okay, so who are we sending, if not me?” I asked next. “We need eyes on them twenty-four seven.”

Coach spoke up, never looking away from the screens. “The Juniors are already on the plane.”

Oh. Okay, they were good. JJ and Junior had practically grown up at Hillcroft. Their fathers were still instructors here, part of the old guard refusing to retire.

Part of me wanted Hudson to get transferred to this assignment, though. He hadn’t worked with my brother much, but he had worked with me. We’d saved each other’s lives more than once.

“River’s right,” Emerson murmured. He stepped forward and pointed at screen six. “The Hahn crew couldn’t have arrived with the Danish container ship—if that’s what Hudson learned. It arrived two hours later, making it impossible for them to be in that bar at the same time.”

River nodded once. “I’d keep my eyes on that ship from Hamburg instead. If you look at the copy on screen five, that data has been scrubbed.”

I rubbed my forehead. Even if I was confused about what exactly they were discussing, I knew that an illegal operation suddenly exploded in size if the corruption extended to port employees. They were official records, not to mention public, and we’d need way more people if?—

“I need to call Quinlan,” Shira said. “We can’t expand the op without approval from the client, and this could cost them millions.”

Reese frowned. “It’s a personal assignment too, though, right? I mean, after Vince died…”

“Absolutely,” Coach assured. “But we’ll still catch bigger fish with a net funded by outside sources, especially if the source is a client with a grudge and oil money.”

Truer words…

I’d met the client once. Some Saudi billionaire whose eldest son had been killed in the crossfire between Hahn’s henchmen and another crime syndicate in Africa. I had no doubt we’d get the funds.

* * *

One more cup of coffee, or get the fuck out of here?

Hell, it was too late to go to my ma’s. I’d just crash in one of the operators’ rooms.

Coach was the only one left, and he looked like he was gonna fall asleep at any second.

I yawned and wheeled my chair back to get a closer look at screen two. At three in the morning, I was too tired to go through the Galveston logs, but I could go through port surveillance footage.

If Shira were here, she’d tell us to get some sleep.

Wehadbroken some ground today, but I wasn’t happy yet. We’d confirmed that the Hahns had simply bullshitted about their arrival to Hudson, which made sense. They had no reason to be forthright to a stranger. River was most likely correct too; there was something about the freighter from Hamburg.

“What the fuck—” I looked over my shoulder as an alarm sounded outside the room, followed by flashing warning lights.

Coach was suddenly alert as hell, and he switched screens to check dispatch central’s incoming messages.

I shot to my feet and moved my handgun from the holster around my ankle to the base of my spine. “What’s it saying?”

Before Coach could respond, we heard it over the PA system.

“Active shooter situation at Lincoln Towers. All operators, initiate lockdown protocol. We repeat, all active operators, initiate lockdown protocol. Shooting reported at Lincoln Towers.”

Jesus fucking Christ! I turned to Coach for the final word, but I was ready to break my own protocol. He and I were two of the many operators instructed to secure Hillcroft in a situation like this, but we had sixteen fucking recruits at the Towers. There wasn’t a fucking chance we were both staying.

“It’s internal,” he reported. “No one’s called 9-1-1 yet.” Which meant the sensors had picked it up—which also meant we knew the floors possibly affected. Ten, eleven, twelve, and thirteen. “You go,” he said. “Keep me in your ear. I’ll check the footage and request backup.”

Okay, done. I sprinted out of the room and toward the stairs, but before I called Coach, I went to the top number in my contact list to get through to dispatch. I wanted to make this call myself so I knew what the response was as fast as possible.

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