Page 3 of Tide of Treason
Brass met primer, primer met powder, and this time a .45slug erased his alibi in a neat crimson period between the eyebrows. He folded before the sound finished echoing off corrugated steel. His friends spun around—and that was generous, calling them friends—just in time to catch two hollow-points.Pop. Pop.Asphalt drank them greedily. I wiped spatter off my cheek with the back of a knuckle and exhaled slow, letting the recoil bleed out through my shoulders.
Two thoughts occurred to me as the world fell back into focus.
First, that it ended too fast.
Second, I didn’t feel bad.
The Crown Vic’s trunk was unlocked. Inside, a sad buffet of latex gloves, zip ties, and a single evidence box filled with nothing but air. Theater props. Sergius Braga loved theater. I picked up a cheap pair of gas station sunglasses and spun them by the arm, feeling the plastic flex. They belonged on some halfwit undercover, but hell, they suited me fine. Sliding them on, I caught my reflection in the rear window.
The little actor in me grinned.
“Lookit you, Mr. FBI,” I drawled in my best Brooklyn accent.
I pocketed guns and ammunition before slamming the boot shut so hard it rattled my bones. The Cartel had me on retainer now—indispensável, Braga called it, as though it was a promotion instead of a tighter shackle around my neck. My official title was runner, but I’d morphed into cleanup, negotiator, executioner . . . whatever the night demanded.
Phone in hand, I dialed Abel’s number. He picked upafter the third ring, and the first thing he said in Afrikaans-lilted English was, “Are you dead?”
“Working on it. Bring Rafi. Bring a van. And bleach.”
His sigh rattled the line. “Sixth job this week,pannekoek. My wife thinks I moonlight for Waste Management.”
The drug business was always changing. New markets to exploit, new players to crush, new competition to cut down. I handled it without a blink, always ready to play the game, and, earlier this week, I’d finished another profitable round of deals. Enough to keep the higher ups content for a while.
I smiled at nothing. “Tell her the trash never sleeps. Loose ends don’t tie themselves, Abel.”
“You mean bodies.”
I didn’t respond. Abel knew the drill.
I heard shuffling from the other end of the line, then a muffled voice. Marisol, asking if he’d remembered to let the Frenchies out. He muttered some excuse. The muffled exchange grew louder, Marisol’s voice inching closer to the phone. Something about a shopping trip. Poor guy. As if taking his balls wasn’t enough; now she was making him hold her handbag while she picked out matching throw pillows. The usual harbingers of marital doom.
The corpse at my feet didn’t look impressed either, so I gave it another nudge, this time for the sake of it, and sighed when the conversation on the end of the line continued.
“. . . I have no idea what color that is.”
A sigh. Probably rolling her eyes, saying “it’s lavender” in a way that hinted that she’d said it a thousand times already.And he’d put up with it. Because that’s what you did when you loved someone—let her buy every damn lavender pillow in the goddamn store.
There was a muffledclickon the other end. Line went dead. Probably Marisol’s doing. I shook my head and slid my phone into my pocket, irritation biting at the edge of my patience. Loose ends to tie up, pillows to pick out . . . everyone’s got a job, I guess.
I gave the corpses a final once-over and spat against the pavement. One of them still had a glowing phone in their hand. I pried the device from Dead Man #1’s rigor-stiff fingers. Couldn’t help but give a humorless snort. His lock screen was practically a still from a vintage porno, complete with gaudy seventies colors and tacky gold trimmings. And the apps, oh boy. Gambling sites. Dating sims. One of those “find hot singles near you” things that were always scams.
Dead Man #1 was a lonely bastard, I’d give him that.
I attached the phone to mine with a cable, fingers moving over the keypad as I sent the info over to a secure server. I was no tech wizard, but it was simple enough to figure out. A couple taps and a minute of waiting later, everything I needed was in my hands. I pulled the cable out with a flick of my wrist, the end of it snapping back against the screen.
“And now,” I murmured, “you’re useless.”
A flick of my lighter and a lick of flame later, I held the phone over the nearby trash can. Heat climbed through my fingers, but I still held on, feeling the metal casing warp and twist beneath my grip. I tossed the phone onto the fire and watched the screen crack, the flames quickly consuming the shell, until all that was left were black ashes and broken pieces of charred plastic.
Breathe.
Step one was getting easier.
Step two, building that spine out of spite, was damn near calcified now.
By the timewe hit SoHo, the inside of my skull felt too tight for its hinges, pressure building behind my ribs. That was the danger hour, the upswing, when everything in my periphery went hyper-sharp and gorgeous and wrong. Streetlights glittered like shattered ice; every horn blast registered as a physical shove between my shoulder blades. I cling to that edge because clarity lives there, but so does the drop.
I paid the cabbie with bills still warm from Dead Man #3’s pocket and walked the last six blocks, duffel hanging off my knuckles. Cipriani’s brass sign glimmered ahead. Abel had called the place a strip club for men who dressed their sins in Tom Ford and foie gras. Tonight it was just a waypoint. Francesco Sforza wanted his envelope, and I wanted the cash for a bus ticket south.
