Snitch chuckled like he was in on the joke.
“Shut up, pencil dick.” Waller took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He shook one out, fumbled for his lighter.
Snitch looked around, checking all the corners.
“You worried about something?” Waller asked. He held the open flame of the lighter a few inches from his cigarette.
Snitch shook his head.
“Take off those fucking glasses.”
Snitch took off his sunglasses.
Waller lit the cigarette. He inhaled half of it down before blowing out a long stream of smoke. “What are we doing here?”
“I got some more pills.” Snitch reached for his pocket.
Waller stopped him with a look. “I look like a drug dealer to you?”
Snitch froze, his hand halfway in his pocket. They’d told him to pass the pills so at the very least, they’d have Waller on taking stolen narcotics.
Inside the van, they all tensed.
Eric said, “Look at him. He’s freaking out.”
He was right. Snitch was panicking.
Waller stood up to leave.
“Come on,” Snitch said. “Don’t be that way.”
Instead of opening the door, Waller leaned against it. His arms crossed over his broad chest. The cigarette dangled from his mouth.
Lena held her breath. She watched the two men. They were having some kind of staring contest.
Unbelievably, Snitch won. Waller looked down as he tapped the ash off his cigarette.
Snitch said, “I wanna move up.”
Waller put the cigarette back in his mouth.
“I can get more product.”
“What makes you think I need it?”
Snitch stood up. He took off his ballcap and ran his fingers through his hair.
Lena asked, “Was that a signal?”
“I think he’s just sweating,” Paul said. “Look at the way he keeps pulling his pants away from his sac.”
He was right. Snitch couldn’t keep his hands off his crotch.
“Well?” Waller prompted. “You gonna make your case?”
Remarkably, Snitch remembered his lines. “I’ve gotta source at the hospital. I can get the good stuff. Name brand. Not that shit from China.”
Smoke wafted up into Waller’s eyes. He was thinking about it. Lena knew that he was thinking about it.
“Come on,” she begged. Everyone in the van edged closer to the monitors. This was the make-or-break moment—maybe their only chance to get him.
Waller turned around and opened the door.
“Fuck.” DeShawn banged his fist against the table. The monitors shook. “I can’t believe he blew it.”
Snitch seemed to be thinking the same thing. He took off his hat again. “You’re a dumbass.”
Waller stopped.
Eric whispered, “Holy shit.”
“Shut up,” Lena ordered.
Waller was turning around. He didn’t speak until the door had closed.
“What’d you just call me?”
“I said you’re a dumbass.”
Lena felt her heart stop beating. Waller was coiled like a snake. They would have to peel him off Snitch before he killed him.
“You think I’m a dumbass?” Waller asked, like he wanted to be absolutely clear.
Instead of backing down, Snitch said, “I offer to double my deliveries, to give you top-notch product, and you walk away from me?” He took a step toward Waller, seemingly blind to the fact that he was taking his own life into his hands. “I want to move up, Sid. I been a good soldier, but I want to be a general one day.”
Waller seemed amused. “That so?”
“Yeah, that’s so.” Snitch jammed his hat back on his head. “I think I’ve earned some respect.”
Waller took out his cigarette pack again. He lit a fresh one off the old one. “What do I get out of this?”
“You know I’m an earner,” Snitch said. “You know I can do the dirty work.”
“Seems to me you like the dirty work.”
“You wanna get me wet?”
Waller didn’t answer, but Lena shook her head. Snitch was pushing it too far. He was asking if Waller wanted him to murder someone.
Waller flicked the old cigarette into the sandpit. “Let’s stick with what you know how to do. Double the order. Bring it to the house off Redding. We got junkies clawing at the door.”
DeShawn offered silent high fives all around. The shooting gallery was the house off Redding. They had their probable cause.
Snitch wouldn’t leave well enough alone. “When do you want it?”
“Soon as you can. Shipment’s late this week.” Sid puffed his cigarette. “We had a truck rolled in Miami. Cubans took two hundred K worth of Oxy.”
Snitch’s inner junkie took over. “I get payment on delivery. That’s the deal.”
Waller laughed. “Look at the big man giving orders.” He patted Snitch on the back so hard that Snitch almost fell into the swing set. “I go by the house at three every morning. Don’t be stupid and don’t be late.”
“Holy motherfucker.” Lena laughed incredulously as Sid Waller took his leave from the playground. “Ho-lee shit.”
Paul was laughing, too. “Grab your ankles, Waller. Get ready for the big pokey.”
Eric cut a bugle of a fart, which made the men laugh harder.
Lena groaned as she crawled past them to the front of the van. “You’re all disgusting.”
They were laughing too hard to hear her.
She plopped into the driver’s seat. She rolled down the window and filled her lungs with clean, fresh air. She prayed to God she wasn’t carrying a boy. Or worse, two boys. Twins ran in families. Dr. Benedict had told her they’d know for sure when he did the next ultrasound.
Lena took out her phone and pulled up Denise Branson’s number. She could see the Chick-fil-A building through the windshield. The distance was too great for detail, but she could tell that Snitch was still on the playground. He had returned to the bench, arms and legs spread wide. The sunglasses were back on. Lena couldn’t see his expression, but she gathered he was feeling pretty pleased with himself. He knew he was safe now. The minute he’d gotten Waller to talk about the house, Snitch’s immunity deal was set in stone.
Lena heard Denise Branson’s voicemail. She ended the call. Denise was probably in a meeting. Lena pulled up the text messaging and typed out a quick note: Baldy will have package within the hour.
Baldy was their nickname for the judge who kept telling them no. Lena was probably being paranoid, but she didn’t want to take the chance that her phone was hacked.
She checked over her shoulder. The men were still celebrating, trying to one-up one another with crass jokes about prison rape.
Lena rolled her eyes as she turned back around. Mr. Snitch was still on the playground bench. The sun was in his face. Kids were playing on the swings in front of him. He didn’t have a care in the world.
She hated this part of the job. The junkie had been caught selling pills to kids, and he would go back to selling them pills because the police had let him go. There was no way for her to sit on him, wait for the inevitable fuckup. No criminal would ever deal with Lena again if they knew she couldn’t be trusted. She would have to sit back and wait for Mr. Snitch to screw up on his own.
Or maybe she wouldn’t.
Lena pulled up email on her phone. She selected the Google account that she used for ordering off the Internet. The email address could probably be traced back to her, but she didn’t really care. She was going to take the advice she had just given Denise Branson. No cop should go it alone. There was no shame in asking for help. Besides, Mr. Snitch’s immunity deal was with Macon, not the state of Georgia.
Lena couldn’t touch Anthony Dell, but Will Trent could.
12.
FRIDAY
Will stumbled out of the hospital. Even outside, he could still hear Sara crying. Could feel the marks she’d left o
n his skin. Could smell her. Taste her.
He passed his bike, crossed the parking lot. His foot hit the curb. He stepped up, walking into the woods behind the building. Will didn’t get far. He fell to his knees. He opened his mouth, tried to bring up the acid eating him inside.
What had he done?
He pressed his forehead to the cold ground. His mind kept flipping through the last twenty-four hours. All the violence. All the pain. What Will had seen. What he had wrought. Lena with the hammer. Tony with his knife. And then there was Sara.
What had he done to Sara?
He had lost her. In that one brutal moment, he had lost her forever.
“Hey, asshole!”
Will looked up. Paul Vickery was barreling toward him. Before Will could react, the man kicked him in the head.
Will slammed to the ground. Stars burst in front of his eyes. The air was knocked out of his chest.
Vickery jumped on him. He rained down punches like a windmill. Will bucked, trying to heave him off. Vickery grabbed Will’s neck. The man put all of his weight into it, crushing Will’s windpipe. Will tried to pry away his fingers. His mouth gaped open. Vickery pressed harder, strangling him. Will’s tongue swelled. His eyes burned. He started to black out. Was this how it was going to happen? After all he had survived, was this how he was going to die?
Suddenly, the pressure stopped. Will gagged on the sudden rush of air.
Paul Vickery flew off him. He landed hard on the asphalt. His head thumped against the curb.
Will coughed so hard his feet kicked out.
“Are you okay?” Faith was there. She had a twenty-inch-long steel police baton in her hand. She asked Will again, “Are you okay?” She kept looking at Vickery, then back at Will. “Can you see me?”
Will saw two of her, then three.
Vickery tried to push himself up.
Faith slammed the baton into Vickery’s kidneys. Two brutal blows, one after the other.
“Bitch!” he screamed, writhing on the ground. “Jesus!” Faith jammed the baton in Vickery’s face. “Stay down.”
“He murdered a cop!”
The baton stayed in Vickery’s face. She drew her Glock on Will. “Get up.”
Will blinked at the gun. Her finger was on the trigger guard. He wasn’t sure he could move. He hurt so bad. Everything hurt so bad.
“Black,” Faith said. “I told you to get the fuck up.”
Black.
Will didn’t understand what she was saying. Was it some kind of a code?
“Up,” Faith repeated. She was using her cop voice, the one that said she had drawn down on a suspect before and was ready to do it again. “I said get the fuck up.”
Finally, Will’s brain managed to make contact with his arms, his legs. He pushed himself to sitting. The effort almost wasted him.
“Stay there,” Faith ordered, as if Will had a choice. “Bill Black, I’m placing you under arrest for parole violation.”
“Parole?” Vickery shouted. “He killed a fucking cop!”
“You got proof?” When Vickery didn’t offer an answer, she told Will, “You have the right to remain silent.”
Vickery muttered, “Stupid cunt.”
Faith talked over him. “Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law.”
Will leaned over and threw up. Peas. Something white. Green beans. He couldn’t remember eating any of it.
“You have a right to consult with an attorney.”
Will sniffed. The sensation almost made him vomit again.
“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you by the courts.”
“Okay.” Will held up his hand for silence. The sound of her voice was an ice pick in his brain. “I waive my rights.”
Faith holstered her Glock, but kept the baton at the ready. She tossed Will her handcuffs. “Put those on.”
Vickery saw an opportunity. He tried to stand.
Faith flicked the baton, cracking it against Vickery’s ankle. The sound was like a twig snapping.
“Bitch!” Vickery screamed in agony. “You fucking bitch!”
“Stand up.” Faith grabbed Will’s arm. She couldn’t move him. “Come on.” She leaned down to help. Her whisper in his ear felt like she was talking underwater. “Please.”
From somewhere deep inside, Will summoned the strength to stand. He staggered like a colt taking its first steps. Faith wrapped her hand around his arm, pulled him toward the parking lot. He tripped over the curb again. Faith labored to keep him upright.
She coached, “Keep walking. Just keep walking.”
Will tried to do as he was told. His feet were floppy, like the tendons had come undone. The ground looked strange. Everything was too large or too small. He was walking through a fun-house mirror. If not for Faith propping him up, he would’ve fallen flat on his face.
Paul Vickery wouldn’t give up. “I got a witness puts him in the back room at Tipsie’s tonight.” He limped after them, keeping his distance. “Same place as the shooters who went after Lena.”
Faith didn’t answer. She pulled Will, urging him to go faster.
“Ask him where he went afterward,” Vickery said. “Ask him where he was when my fucking team was being attacked.”
Faith raised the baton in warning.
Vickery hung back. “I’ll get him at the station.”
“He’s not going to the station.” Faith leaned Will against a black Suburban. “I’m taking him to the field office. He’s in state custody.”
“You won’t be able to hold him there.”
Faith opened the back door. She kept her body turned toward Vickery as she tried to help Will into the seat. He was too heavy for her to manage. In the end, all Will could do was fall in.
“You’ll have to process him,” Vickery warned. “You send him to county, you send him to Fulton, I’ll get at him somehow.”
Will’s wrists were still cuffed. He clenched his stomach muscles so he could straighten up in the seat. The pain was excruciating. He opened his mouth. He was going to be sick again.
“Stay back, Vickery. I mean it.” Faith closed the door. She used the remote to lock it. The baton stayed out as she walked around the front of the Suburban.
“You’re dead, Black!” Vickery punched the door. He banged his fists against the glass. “You hear me? I will fuck you up!”
Will closed his eyes. Everything was spinning. The car kept shaking. Vickery was putting his shoulder into it, like he thought he could roll a five-thousand-pound vehicle.
“Back the fuck up!” Faith yelled. She was at the front of the car. She said something else, but Will’s hearing was going in and out. He heard Vickery call her every name a man could use against a woman. Faith cussed him right back, giving as good as she got.
The driver’s-side door opened.
Faith yelled, “Bet on it, cocksucker.” She slammed the door shut. The sound was like a cannon. The engine turned over. The car jerked as she put it in gear. The wheels squealed against pavement.
Will leaned forward. He rested his head on his knees. His hands were clasped together, trapped between his chest and legs. Spit and blood dripped from his open mouth. He waited for Faith to say something. To yell at him. To ask him what the hell he’d been doing.
She rolled down the windows a few inches. Will felt the cold night air swirl around him. He closed his eyes. Breathed through his mouth. The light grew softer. The tires hummed against the road.
Faith kept driving. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t even turn around.
Will’s breathing started to even out. Eventually, the nausea passed. Unfortunately, so did the numbness. His body came alive with pain. His nose felt broken. His eyelids throbbed. His lip was split. His neck felt as if it had been scraped with a razor, and his head pounded along with the beating of his heart.
Faith accelerated. They were on the highway. Will could tell from the steady, low grind of the engine. He didn’t know how much ti
me passed before she finally slowed for a turn. The sound inside the Suburban changed from a gentle hum to a fragmented crunch. The brakes squeaked as Faith slowed to a stop. She put the gear in park. The emergency brake clicked when she pushed down the pedal.
Faith opened the door. Will heard her walk around the car.
He pushed himself up. He had to move slowly. He winced at the pain in his head. His throat felt raw. He couldn’t get the taste of blood out of his mouth.
The back door opened. Faith still didn’t speak. She turned on the dome light. Will blinked, squinting. The handcuffs came off. Will rubbed his wrists, trying to get the circulation to come back. Faith opened the first aid kit from under the seat. She pulled out a roll of cotton squares, various packets, antibiotic ointment, Band-Aids. Will heard cars on either side of them. Faith had parked in a restricted area that cut across the highway median. Trees surrounded them. Broken beer bottles and used condoms littered the ground.
She said, “Look at me.”
Will turned his head toward her. He closed his eyes. Packets were ripped open. Alcohol wipes. Disinfectant. He kept his eyes shut as Faith tended his scrapes and cuts. She was efficient if not gentle. Will was grateful. Sara had doctored him before. She always touched him so softly. She caressed him, kissed the places she said needed extra help to heal.
Faith wiped underneath his eyes with a tissue.
Will parted his lips to help get more air in his lungs. He wanted to thank her, to acknowledge how much her silence meant to him. Faith had always been a bull in the china shop of his life. Will was too broken now to tell her what had happened with Sara tonight.
Faith scrubbed at the blood around his nose. She said, “Eric Haigh is dead.”
“I know.” Will could barely speak. He tried to clear what felt like a wad of cotton trapped in his esophagus.
Faith said, “We found the body an hour ago.”
“His front yard,” Will whispered. “I helped Tony Dell put him there.”
Faith’s hand stopped.
Will opened his eyes. “I watched him kill him. Tony Dell kill Eric.” Will coughed. The cotton had turned into razors. “It was at Tipsie’s. Hunting knife. Dell wears it in his boot. Wore it.” Will tried to swallow, but his throat refused. “We threw the knife in the river. I don’t know which one. Concrete bridge. No houses around.”
The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle Page 274