Page 16 of Steel Trap
Chapter Five
Smith was reading through Shelton’s latest email when his secure landline rang. Only one person had the number. He hesitated just a second or two before picking up the receiver.
“Yes, sir?”
“Is everything on schedule for tonight?” Horatio Trap’s familiar voice grated in Smith’s ear. There was, as always, a hint of accusation in his tone.
“It is.” Smith made a consciouseffort to stop his knee bouncing.
“I’m relying on you, Montgomery. You succeed tonight and you take millions of dollars’ worth of poison off the streets. The supply chain will be reduced for years.”
“Yes, sir.” Smith didn’t need reminding.
“You have your tame bikers under control?”
“They’ll play their part as they always do.” Smith knew The Wyverns were anything but tame.
Trap grunted. “They’reloyal to each other and the money I pay them, not to you. You’d do well to remember that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll expect your full report first thing tomorrow—and, Montgomery?”
“Yes?”
“Take care of yourself.”
Smith thought he detected a slight softening in Trap’s voice, but it was probably his imagination. “I will,” he replied, but he was talking to the dial tone.
For security reasons, he andTrap hadn’t met face to face for some time. Smith held out some hope that the man he risked his life for had some affection for him, even if he didn’t often show it. He wondered how Trap would react if he knew about Hatchet, but then he most likely did. The building security staff would have reported back on Hatchet’s visit and Smith never had guests to his apartment. The place wasn’t bugged—Smithswept it every now and again to check—but he hoped Trap trusted him enough not to resort to covert surveillance. No doubt there would be a difficult conversation about his relationship sometime soon, though, Smith suspected thatrelationshipwas too strong a word to describe how Hatchet viewed their association.
He shut down his computer. It was almost time to leave and his stomach was doingflip-flops. Smith walked from his study to the bedroom to check his reflection. The Kevlar vest he wore was state of the art and the thinnest he could obtain. He’d chosen a dark shirt to conceal its lines. His favorite silver dagger cufflinks glinted at his wrists. His suit was charcoal grey linen—the lightest he had for a hot evening—and a pristine white handkerchief poked from the breast pocket.He gave himself a spritz of cologne. If he was going to die, then he’d do it smelling good.
He ran through the plan in his head. Shelton had only given him the scantest of details, but it was enough. He was playing a part and it would be much easier to act appropriately if his reactions were genuine. Hatchet would be well on the road by now. Smith allowed himself a brief daydream of riding pillion,pressing his face to Hatchet’s broad back, the scent of leather enveloping his senses. Smith’s ass clenched. He hoped they would both survive the night and he’d get to experience the amazing feeling of being filled by Hatchet’s sizeable cock again. Hatchet had been right about one thing—sleeping with him had ruined Smith for anyone else. Smith sighed. He fastened his Rolex around his wristthen headed for the door.
* * * *
Forty minutes later, Smith’s car drew up opposite the gates to a junkyard. Through his window, he could see mountainous stacks of wrecked vehicles towering above the fence line—jagged teeth silhouetted against the night sky. He repressed a shudder. He checked his watch, noting it was close to midnight. There was no sign of anyone else on the deserted streetso Smith left the security of the vehicle. He crossed the street to where the double gates stood ajar and wondered if Hatchet was watching. He squared his shoulders then entered the yard. A single floodlight illuminated an area of compressed dirt. Three men stood in front of an unlit trailer, all dressed in dark suits and open-necked shirts. Two held guns.
“You were told to come alone.” The apparentlyunarmed man in the center was the one who spoke. Smith guessed he was Camacho. His voice was low but the sound carried and it held a distinct threat of violence. Smith plastered on his best haughty expression.
“Did you expect me to walk here? My driver has gone, so are you here to discuss business or shoot your mouth off? You’re trying my patience.” He took a couple of steps forward. Grit crunchedbeneath his feet and his imagination conjured millions of bone fragments littering the ground. “The agreement was to observe production.”
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”
“If I’m happy with what I see, there’s five million waiting for the first order. Two million per month after that. No viewing. No cash.” He glared at the spokesman. “As agreed.” He maintained eye contact, difficult though it was.Behind him, the gates creaked open and a vehicle pulled in to the yard. Smith resisted the temptation to turn around. He kept his gaze fixed on Camacho.
“You do as I say, understand?” Camacho snapped.
Smith nodded. In the distance, he thought he detected the rumble of motorcycle engines.
“Take off your jacket. Turn out your pants pockets.”
Smith pulled out his pocket linings, showing theywere empty, then dropped his jacket to the ground. Camacho approached him, holding a strip of black cloth. Smith shrugged as he was blindfolded. It was nothing he hadn’t expected. The fabric smelled of cordite and Smith had to wonder what had happened to the last person who had worn it.
“Let’s go.” Someone gripped Smith’s bicep. “Time for a ride.”
Smith allowed himself to be propelled, presumablytoward the vehicle. The roar of powerful engines got louder and louder. “What’s going on?” Smith attempted to tear off the blindfold but someone grabbed his arms and held them behind his back.
