Page 66 of Worth the Wait
He stood, shoved his boots back on, and grabbed his keys.
If Reece was right about one thing, it was that you didn’t leave things you care about unattended.
Not in Worthbridge.
* * * *
Freddie was back in uniform. Four days off already a distant memory but he hoped a bit of responsibility and the start of another punishing run of nights might be enough to drag his mind off Nathan Carter.
At least he wasn’t pounding the pavement on foot patrol, chasing pissed-up teenagers or scraping drunks off the pavement this time. No. Tonight he was deep in it.
Surveillance op.
Static, cold, drawn-out work. Eyes on a target house for Operation Echelon, a property tied to the Radleyinvestigation. Suspected drugs, suspected trafficking, and no room for screw-ups. He could already feel the edge of something huge about to break creeping in. He adjusted his earpiece, curling one hand loosely around the thermal coffee cup balanced between his knees, tapping a restless rhythm with the other on the steering wheel.
Outside the car, the street was quiet. Too quiet for half-eight on a Thursday night. Too dark, too. No working streetlights, and all the semi-detached houses had the same tired curtains drawn already. Same cracked paving stones, too. Only difference was the target house three doors down: blacked-out windows, a steady trickle of comings and goings, and a hell of a lot of reasons to believe Radley’s operation was rooted inside.
He shifted, the police radio crackling quietly through his comms. Static. Then the clipped voice of DI Carrick.
“Surveillance teams in position. Maintain constant observations. No pro-active moves unless authority given. Confirm over.”
Freddie pressed the mic clipped to his vest. “Bravo One, received, over.”
Becca sat in the passenger seat, munching on a bag of crisps as if they weren’t about to bust open a potential trafficking ring. She licked the salt off her thumb.
“You reckon they’re sitting in there counting twenties?”
Freddie kept his eyes forward, scanning the quiet street. “Bodies, more like.” He glanced at her. “Intel says two minors inside. Maybe more.”
“Great.” Becca tossed the empty bag into the footwell.
They settled back into silence, engines off, windows cracked enough to hear anything off outside. This was the waiting game: old-school observational policing. Confirm the activity. Wait for DI Carrick to call a go. No heroics. No cowboy shit. And usually a long-arse night of sitting here.
Freddie checked his watch. Twenty minutes since the last movement. A scrappy teenager dropping off a pizza box nobody seriously believed had actual pizza inside. He shifted in his seat, itching to move, to dosomething, to focus on the job instead of letting his mind drift where it really shouldn’t.
He hadn’t heard from Nathan.
Maybe Ron hadn’t passed on the message that he’d come by. Wouldn’t be a shock. He hadn’t exactly expected Ron to be the welcoming committee. But still. No call, no text, no sign. Not that Nathan had his number anymore. That had changed a dozen times since their teens, mostly thanks to money problems, new contracts, and one memorable stint where Freddie had needed to swap phones after a Grindr hook up turned into a mild stalking situation.
Still. He’d half-hoped Nathan might find a way. Track him down somehow. Because Christ knew Freddie couldn’t exactly turn up at the garage again. Couldn’t risk running into Ron and standing there like an idiot on the doorstep.
Instead, he’d spent the day trying, and failing, to get some sleep, mentally prepping for this shift. Because at least out here, behind the wheel, with a target to watch, he had a purpose. Something to do other than think aboutNathan Carter.
Becca elbowed him. “So what’s the deal with this Nathan Carter?”
Freddie snapped his gaze to her. “Huh?”
“Dave passed it around the station. Nathan Carter threw a punch on the pitch. Knocked Reece flat.”
“He didn’t knock Reece out.”
“Thought that sounded bollocks. Reece is the size of a bloody Ford Transit. And a boxing champ. Worthbridge’s answer to Tyson Fury. Be mental to take him down clean.”
Freddie didn’t respond, turning his attention back to the target house. Truth was, he reckoned if Nathan really wanted to, he could’ve flattened Reece. Flattened anyone. Infantry training didn’t teach soldiers to hold back. Or not to go beyond the belt.
“You think he wants you back?”
Freddie turned back to her. “Who?”
