Page 37 of Stalked
“No. No problem.” I know that tone. Xavier isn't asking; he's telling. And in the Blackwood hierarchy, his word is law. “I'll head over now.”
“Good.” The line goes dead.
I pocket my phone and head toward where I parked my bike, my thoughts still tangled up in Lia. But I need to clear my head, and a ride across town might help.
The carnival crew has been in town for nearly a week now, setting up for their annual summer show. Tyson and his people have been useful allies over the years—their ability to move between towns without raising suspicion makes them ideal partners for certain aspects of our business. Plus, they throw one hell of a party.
I reach my Kawasaki Ninja, its green body gleaming in the afternoon sun. Running my hand over the sleek chassis, I feel the familiar rush of anticipation that comes with riding. I swing my leg over and settle into the seat, pulling my matching green helmet over my head.
The engine roars to life beneath me, a mechanical extension of my own pent-up energy. I navigate through downtown traffic, heading east toward the industrial district where our warehouse sits. My mind oscillates between business and pleasure—between the handoff waiting for me and the woman who just left me standing on the sidewalk.
I pull into the warehouse lot, parking my Ninja beside Knox's Aprilla. The massive steel door is half-open, voices and laughter spilling out into the afternoon air. Business with the carnival crew is never just business—it's a reunion of sorts.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Knox calls out as I duck under the door. My younger brother lounges against a stack of crates, spinning a butterfly knife between his fingers. “Thought you weren't going to show up.”
“And miss all the fun?” I pull off my helmet and scan the space. Knox, Tyson, Remy, Nash, and Colt are gathered around several large crates—our regular setup.
Tyson steps forward, extending his hand. “Vane. Good to see you.” Despite running a traveling carnival as a front, Tyson carries himself with unmistakable authority. The handshake is firm, our eyes meeting in mutual respect.
“How's business?” I ask.
“Booming,” Tyson grins. “Amazing how many people will pay twenty bucks to see Nash here hang upside down in spandex.”
Nash flips him off without looking up from his phone. “People pay to see art in motion, asshole.”
“Speaking of art in motion,” I say, “let's get this show on the road. Got places to be.”
Knox tosses a duffel bag onto one of the crates with a heavy thud. “All there. Counted twice.” He resumes flipping his knife, the steel catching the warehouse's fluorescent lighting.
Tyson unzips the bag to inspect its contents. His eyes flicker over the neatly stacked bills before he nods, satisfied.
I notice Colt slide his hand discreetly onto Nash's lower back as they stand side by side. It's a subtle gesture, protective and intimate. Nash leans slightly into the touch.
“We good?” I ask Tyson.
He zips the bag closed. “We're good. Nash, Colt—get the packages from the van, would you?”
Nash nods, moving toward the door, and Colt follows close behind.
I hear the rumble of an engine outside, and moments later, Jenson pulls up in one of our unmarked vans. Our loyal spymaster has been with us for years—not much older than Xavier but twice as cautious. Three of our men climb out with him, all wearing the standard Blackwood uniform.
“Right on time,” I say, checking my watch. “Let's get this done.”
Tyson nods to Nash and Colt. “You two know the drill.”
The back doors of their van swing open. Inside, stacked in neat rows, are what appear to be equipment cases—perfect cover for moving product between towns. Colt climbs in first, disappearing into the shadows of the van's interior.
“Incoming!” Colt's voice echoes from inside as he tosses the first brick. Nash catches it easily. His movements are fluid as he pivots and launches it toward Jenson, who stands ready by our van.
“Good arm,” Jenson comments, catching the package and passing it to one of our men to load.
They establish a rhythm, brick after brick flying through the air. Colt to Nash to Jenson to our men. It's efficient, almost beautiful in its coordination. Twenty kilos are moving like they're passing a basketball.
Greg, one of our newer recruits, jogs over to the carnival van and pulls himself up beside Colt. “Let me help,” he says, positioning himself to speed up the assembly line.
While they work, I lean against a stack of crates beside Knox, Tyson, and Remy.
“Heard you've got quite the crowd this year,” I say to Tyson.
