Page 68 of Tapped

“No, and this place is a fucking maze.”

Brax kills the sirens and headlights. I radio for the marked unit to break off north and we go south. Brax weaves through the rows of containers. The sun has almost set—soon it’ll be impossible to find anyone.

“Stop,” I bark and grab my gun from my ankle holster under my jeans. “Runner.”

We’ve done this more times than I can count. Brax says nothing when I jump out of the car. He guns it, and I take off into the shadows.

No one runs in the Miami cargo lots for no reason.

I make it three rows in and nothing.

I finally stop and put my back to a container before I move to the next row. Feet hit the pavement in quick succession.

I glimpse around the corner and see him moving away from me. He hasn’t had time to change out of the red shirt he was wearing when he starred in the surveillance recordings last night. It’s him—Adder’s right hand man. His light brown, shaggy hair swings as he runs.

Without taking the time to let Brax know where we are, I follow with my gun drawn.

He turns right.

The sound of footsteps come to an eerie silence. I halt just shy of the next row.

There’s a shuffle.

And heavy breathing.

He needs to hit the gym instead of dealing drugs.

Call it intuition or a sixth sense, but I brace.

The moment it happens, I’m ready.

An arm swings around the corner fisting a handgun.

With my free hand, I fist his forearm and pull him from around the corner.

He pulls the trigger.

The shot goes wide and ricochets off a metal container above us. The sound echoes through the cargo lot.

“Police.” When I identify myself, he widens his eyes. “Drop the gun before you get into more trouble.”

He doesn’t cooperate. He makes the wrong choice and fights back.

He might not be able to run a marathon, but he’s no slouch and tries to headbutt me.

“Oomph.” I jerk back, but not far enough. I catch his forehead on my cheekbone.

“Fucking pig. I’ll kill you.”

The radio clipped to my belt clatters to the ground when I flip him and press the side of his face to the metal. It takes three times, but he finally drops the gun when I slam his wrist and arm above his head. I keep his hand held against the container and my forearm between his shoulder blades.

“Your friends dropped you off at the port. What are you running from?” I demand.

“Let me go,” he seethes. “They’ll come back. You don’t want to know what we’ll do when it’s all of us against just you.”

“I have friends, too, asshole. If you want to add resisting arrest to your list, be my guest, but we have things to talk about.”

Tires screech from our sides, and we both tense.

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