Page 2 of Tide of Treason
A knock rattled the door. Three sharp raps, the rhythm cartels used when they wanted in without blowing your brains out first. I slid the notebook under the mattress just as Rafael Fosco stepped inside, kicked the door shut with a boot.
“Nice décor. Really brings out the cirrhosis in your eyes.”
“Fuck you too. You bring what I asked?”
He dropped a prepaid phone and a folded city map on the bed. “Safe house in Staten Island’s good until Sunday. After that, Braga’s dogs sweep the docks again.”
“Sunday’s enough.” I shoved the map and phone into the duffel. “Get some sleep. We roll at dawn.”
He lingered. “Braga’s talking marriage again.”
Ice water sluiced down my spine, but I kept my face blank. “Not my problem till he shows me a ring.”
“He’s talkingSforzaagain. Cartel and Cosa Nostra tie a bow, we hold every port from Rio to Staten Island. He’sfucking salivating.”
“He salivates at anything wearing white lace and inherited territory.” I snapped the bag shut. “Doesn’t mean I’m walking the aisle for him.”
“Sure,” Rafael said. “Tell yourself that,irmãozinho. Dawn, then.”
The next five days blurred into a routine. We cleaned weapons, scrubbed serials, and mapped drop points. Rafael brokered two supply swaps with the Albanians while I shook down a crooked port foreman for tomorrow’s gate schedule. Money changed hands; promises changed owners. By Friday we’d bought ourselves a seat at the table. One nobody realised was stacked with TNT.
That night, Braga’s orders slithered through the phone static.
“Three watchdogs have fleas. Handle it.”
“Names,” I said.
He spat them out like gristle and hung up.
Fog pooled aroundthe shipping containers, thick as sour milk. The three men Sergius had flagged were already there, lounging against an unmarked Crown Vic painted in knock-off FBI decals. I approached on foot, hands visible, heartbeat lazy. One of them lifted his chin.
“Andrade.”
I didn’t return the courtesy. My gaze slid to the .45 at his hip. “Braga isn’t here.”
“Running late?” He tried the joke-and-a-smile routine. My silence filleted the grin off his face. Two fingers tapped his holster. He unclipped the strap and handed it over. I racked the slide, letting inertia strip away his lies, one deliberate click at a time. Trust cost more than currency in this business. Sergius paid in phony bills; I valued authenticity.
“Chefesays you’ve been selling on the side, making deals behind his back.”
He shook his head, eyes wide. “No.”
Click.
The hammer fell, thudding against nothing. He trembled.
“I wasn’t! I’d never do that. Y-you know that, Andrade. I don’t sell unless Braga tells me to.”
Click.
Silence again. Beautiful, pressurised silence. Sweat beaded under the halogen glare.
“I’m no snake! I wouldn’t—”
“Funny,” I murmured, chambering another round. “How is it I’ve seen one of your customers, hmm? Skinnypendejowith the prison ink and—oh right. The one who buys from you on the weekends. The one you sell to behind our back before your shift ends Monday.”
“Listen to me—please—”
Click.
