Page 57 of Ink's Devil

Without thinking, I take the bag from her. “Get out of here, Beth,” I repeat in the most commanding whisper I can summon, the tone that she obeys in bed.

Now relieved of her burden, she turns and flees.

“Bring it here.” The click and the reflected light bouncing off the weapon shows I’ve got a gun aimed at me.

Yeah, if she was carrying the small holdall like a snake, so do I. If she was delivering his stock for the night, then I’ll do it for her. Then he can go make his sales and the cops can pick him up. All this goes through my head in an instant. The bag feels heavy, unless I’m totally wrong about the contents, it’s a fuckload of shit I’m about to turn over. No wonder he’s keen to get his hands on what Beth had brought.How the fuck is she involved in this?

But there’s no time for second thoughts.Hand this over and disappear. I step toward him and hold the bag out.

The area is floodlit.

We’re surrounded by cops.

It happens so fast. The dealer was so focused on me making Beth’s delivery, and I was so intent on giving her space to get away, I’d forgotten the imminent danger for one moment. One, dreadful, life-changing moment. Now, I’m lying face down on the ground, a knee in my back, and my hands rapidly handcuffed behind me.

Then I’m pulled to my feet, searched, and have my weapons taken away.

The dealer, if my suspicions are right as to who the man is, well, he too is subjected to the same treatment.

As I’m led to a police car and pushed roughly inside, all I can wonder is how the fuck this evening has ended like this, and whether this is the last night of freedom I’ll ever have. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck and fuck. My head spins with the rapidity with which I went from a free man to a prisoner.

I’m a Devil. They’ll throw the book at me.

Chapter Seventeen

Beth

When I entered Connor’s old room and flicked on the light, I went to the closet. There’s a musty smell from old shoes. I move the clothing aside and then find packages piled up against the back wall.

Where had they come from? How did they get here?

The heel of my hand hits my forehead.Connor hadn’t been bringing an empty box in to collect his stuff.No. He’d obviously brought these in and left with the garbage that I thought his old Xbox and games were.

I might never have come across anything like this before, but there’s only one thing he’s got stored. Here. In my home. In our mother’s house. Drugs.Oh, shit no.

I sit back on my heels, not even wanting to touch the Saran-wrapped blocks. I’m no expert and don’t know what type, it could be anything. But it’s highly illegal, and to me seems one hell of a lot. There are ten packages in all, and Connor had asked me to deliver two of them.I want nothing to do with this.

And what’s he planning on doing with the rest? Storing them here indefinitely? Using me as a…what do they call it?Drug mule?

I feel sick as realisation goes through me and puzzle pieces start to fall into place. If this is what Connor is involved with, that he’s really in danger becomes more believable. Has he stolen the drugs from someone? Is he now supposed to be giving them back? Or are they his, and he’s using me?

What’s does he plan to do with the rest?

Taking his words at face value, he’ll be dead if I don’t do what he’s asked. His story is now far more credible.

He’s also been clever. Leaving it so late, I’ve no option if I’m going to try to save him, but to follow his instructions to the letter. I don’t have the time to call for help or stop to wonder whether there was a better way to extricate him from whatever trouble he’s in. If I’m going to make the meet, I can’t involve the cops, tell Mom or go to Ink for help. There’s no time.

But still there’s a niggling doubt at the back of my mind, there’s a chance he might just be using me to do his dirty business.Can I take that risk?

No, I can’t. He’s my brother, I couldn’t live with myself if he died because I hadn’t done what he’s asked.But if he’s stringing me along, he’ll wish he was dead later.

I’ve got to get moving.

I’m not stupid. It’s cold, and I’ve got gloves in the pocket of my jacket I’m already wearing. Taking them out I slip my hands into them, then pick up two blocks and, already feeling like a criminal, take them back to my room and place them in an old rucksack I remember being hidden behind my winter boots in my own closet. The packages drop to the bottom and feel heavier than their weight.

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be part of the drug world. I don’t want to feed someone’s habit when they should be getting help instead. How many children are going hungry because their parents are shooting themselves up?

I could sacrifice my brother and take this all to the cops.

---