John blows out a breath and scratches at the scruff on his jawline. “We could try sticking it on him personally, but it’s too risky. He could find it, and even if he didn’t, as soon as he changes clothes, it’s useless. Maybe we can put it on something that he carries into his office himself. I’ll talk to the team and see if they can put something together in the next few hours.”
My phone vibrates with a text message. Fuck. “We don’t have time,” I say, getting up to go grab my jacket. “Croc knows about you. He wants to meet.”
Behind me, his chair legs vibrate on the tile as he pushes back from the table and follows me, his booted steps eager. “Perfect, when we’re in his office—”
I snag my jacket and spin around. “I already told you, he won’t bring us in there. He’ll interrogate you right in the middle of the shop where everyone can watch him act like a tough guy.”
“Okay, fine. Then we’ll stick with the idea of bringing something new into the office with the bug in it. We might not get it in today, but it shouldn’t be too much longer.”
I punch my arms into my sleeves like I’m gearing up for a fight, but the only war I’m in is with myself. Since Croc won’t bring anything foreign into his office, I’m our only chance of getting anything in there. The thought of being alone with him in a confined space makes my skin crawl, but I’ll do whatever I have to do. For Starkey’s sake.
“I can get in.”
John stops and looks at me. “You can?”
“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”
“Perfect. All you need to do is stick it right under the edge of his desk, and we’ll be golden. Hold on a sec, I’ll get it.”
He heads straight for his room and comes back with a small, round device that looks like a watch battery. I hold out my hand, expecting him to drop it in, but he doesn’t. He places it in the center of my palm, his fingertips grazing my lifeline, giving me goose bumps all the way up my arm. I’m sure the thing costs more than what my miserable life is worth, but the way he’s looking at me with those golden-brown eyes, it’s almost like he’s being careful with me, not the expensive piece of equipment he’s entrusting me with.
“When we get there, keep it in your hand. It’ll look natural since your hands are usually balled into fists anyway,” he says with a teasing smirk.
I give him a wolfish grin. “Never know when I’ll need to punch a smart-ass cop.”
He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, but it doesn’t work all that great. “Assaulting a police officer is a Class C felony. I’d have to put you in cuffs for my own safety until backup arrived.”
I step into his personal space, nice and close. “If you want to get kinky with handcuffs, Darling, I’m totally down. Just know that you’ll always be the one wearing them, bound and completely at my mercy. That’s the only way I play.”
He swallows hard but holds his ground, which—goddamn it—might actually be hotter than when he submits. Pulling his shoulders back, he holds my gaze. “Wearing the bracelets is pretty fun when you’re not on your way to jail. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
“Not in this lifetime, kid.”
He raises a single brow. “Trust issues?”
You have no fucking idea.
I turn and head for the door. “Let’s go. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Chapter Eleven
John
“A few seconds near his desk, that’s all you need.” I try to make it sound instructional and not reassuring. James doesn’t like to be considered weak, so I’m pretending not to notice how on edge he’s been ever since he told me he could get Croc to take him into his office.
Not that I’d ever think he was weak for not wanting to be alone with a man who used to beat him as a kid. How he’s managed to be around him all these years without wanting to give him a taste of his own medicine is a mystery to me. In fact, why he stuck around is an even bigger mystery. I don’t know for sure, but I have to wonder if Croc hasn’t been holding something over James all these years. Even if he wanted to wait until Smee and Starkey were safe, I can’t think of why he’d stay after that.
I’m hoping that one of these days he’ll talk to me about it, but I’m not holding my breath. I accused him of having trust issues, which is like saying “cops wear blue.” It’s merely stating the obvious. But I think it’s way deeper than that. I think his trust issues have trust issues, to the point I have to wonder if he’s been able to depend on anyone his entire life.
James pulls into a spot at the Wrench and Go, Croc’s front for what’s essentially the chop shop where Hook and the rest of the kids from the school were forced to work growing up. He cuts the engine on his Challenger and nails me with a serious look. “Let me do the talking. Answer his direct questions, nothing more. Got it?”
“Don’t worry about me; I can handle myself.”
“You’d better hope so.”
I follow him into one of the open garage bays with my bad-guy-don’t-give-a-shit-about-anything attitude in full effect. This is nothing like LB Automotive, which is owned and run by Peter, Tink, and the rest of the Lost Boys on the other side of Neverland. Their shop is clean and organized. The Wrench and Go would be more aptly named the Wrench and Stench. Every surface looks like it was dipped in motor oil, including the mechanics, and the random piles of tires and other car parts don’t instill a sense that they’ll be very careful with your vehicle. Any car that pulls out of here likely drives away with a few less original parts than they drove in with.
We stop at the service desk where a balding man in his late forties sits with his feet up on the lower counter, watching Jerry Springer on a small television. His mechanic coveralls look like they haven’t been washed in months—or ever—and they’re only zipped partway up his stomach, revealing a sweat-stained wifebeater underneath. The name patch on his chest says Tito.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the Captain himself.” Tito’s mouth widens in a mirthless grin, his lower lip distended with so much chewing tobacco it looks like he tucked half a finger in there. “Your lackeys finally get sick of doing your dirty work and bail on you?”
James leans an elbow on the high counter. “Now, Tito, you know better than that. Lackeys never leave on their own. After all, you’ve been doing Croc’s dirty work since I was just a kid.”
Tito’s amusement morphs into a disgusted sneer as he drops his feet and stands, leaning forward as he spews his hate. “You’re no different than the rest of us, you little shit. You’d better show me some fucking respect or I’ll—”
Up till now, I’ve been hanging back, letting James do his thing. But all it took for my blood to boil and fists to curl was hearing this slobbish waste of space even start to threaten James. It takes me two large steps to reach James’s side and nail that fat fuck with a glare that promises pain. “You’ll what?”
Tito takes notice of me for the first time. I enjoy the way he pales and his mouth drops open before he recovers his fake tough-guy act. “Who the fuck are you?”
James smirks. “That’s JD, my newest lackey. He’s very loyal with twice as much muscle as you have fat, and that’s saying a lot. I wouldn’t piss him off if I were you.”
I crack my knuckles for effect and smile with satisfaction when Tito slowly sits back in his chair.
“That’s a good boy,” James says to him. “Now do your job and tell Croc we’re here.”
Tito picks up the phone to presumably do just that, but James doesn’t bother to wait. As he leads me farther into the shop, I scan my surroundings with outward mild interest. Tactically, I’m taking in every detail: searching for exits, weapons, and surveillance cameras. Other than the one stationary camera up front that’s pointed at the cash register and service desk, I don’t notice anything out of the ordinary.
Not surprising since this isn’t where the majority of the criminal activity happens, just where it’s planned. Hopefully we can get the intel we need, things like whether he has o
ther players in the operation, if he’s the one making it or having it smuggled in from somewhere else, and if he’s dabbling in anything other than the drug trafficking.
All the way in the back, a man emerges from an office. The heavy metal door swings shut behind him, and the keypad next to it blinks red with a long beep that signals it’s now locked. It doesn’t look incredibly high-tech, but it’s good enough to keep the average person out. Plus, there’s another stationary camera aimed at the door, so you’d have to disable that before attempting to get past the alarm system. All things that would add a lot more risk to the operation than if James can just get the bug placed in the office without suspicion.
Croc saunters up to us with confidence and authority. I’ve studied his file. I know everything about him that the bureau knows and I’ve seen pictures, but I’ve never seen him in person. Not even when we were kids. He looks a lot older than his fifty-five years thanks to his wrinkled, leathery face and gray-streaked brown hair perpetually in desperate need of a wash and cut. At six-feet tall and pushing three hundred pounds, most people are probably intimidated by his size if not his menacing black eyes. He might be tough, but even the toughest predators have soft underbellies. That’s usually a metaphor, but in Croc’s case, it’s also literal, courtesy of his love for beer and shitty food. I’m not impressed.
“What took you so long? You two sucking each other off instead of following my orders?”
From the corner of my eye, I can see my partner’s shoulders tense, but his face doesn’t give anything away. “Tito wanted to run his mouth instead of doing his job.”
Croc grunts and turns his attention on me, giving me a once-over like he would with a potential car purchase. “Guessing this is your new crew member. The one I never gave you permission to recruit.”
“I’m down a guy thanks to you,” James says. “You want the product moved, I need people to move it.”
“New guy have a name?”
“JD.” I’m careful to stay just this side of respectful without offering more than I need to. A guy like JD wouldn’t give out information about himself he didn’t have to.
He narrows his beady eyes at me. “Your full name. I run checks on anyone who does business for me. That a problem for you?”
I shrug. “Only problem I’ll have is if I don’t get a cut of what I’m selling. I don’t hustle for free.”
“No one does,” Croc says with a toothy grin. “Name.”
“John Dorian McRae.”
James cuts in. “He was in the Scavengers down in Atlanta.”
That piques Croc’s interest. “What’d you do for them?”
“I collected debts owed to the club. If people had problems paying up, I convinced them it was in their best interest to try harder.”
Another grunt and another once-over, this time slightly more appreciative because now he’s probably imagining me torturing some poor schmuck for him. Something I’d never be able to do in real life, but as JD, I give him a smug grin because I know how valuable a guy like “me” is to a guy like him. Every criminal boss needs reliable muscle. The more sadistic, the better.
“Enforcer, huh? I think your talents might be wasted pedaling Dust,” Croc says, rubbing his chin. “I have other things you could do that would better suit you.”
“Hey.” James takes a step forward. “He’s my find, my guy.”
“Do I need to remind you that all your guys—including you—are mine? I can damn well do whatever I want with him.”
“We had a deal, so I don’t give a shit what you do with him as long as it’s after he helps me,” James says with a snarl. “You need to keep your eye on the bigger picture here. Only an idiot wouldn’t give me the support I need to complete the job he gave me.”
Croc glares and speaks in a low voice. “You forget who you’re talkin’ to, Captain.”
Hook appears to almost shudder, like Croc’s sarcastic use of his title is in place for something else that only they know about. But it doesn’t stop James from taking another step forward into Croc’s space. “Then maybe you should remind me,” he taunts, his eyes stony and jaw set.
An evil grin slides onto Croc’s face. “In my office. Now.”
As they walk away, I’m torn between a mental fist pump and pulling a fire alarm to abort the mission. This feels off to me. Croc’s expression didn’t change, but something had flashed in his eyes, like anticipation or excitement, and I don’t like it. I should’ve pressed James to tell me how he intended on getting an invitation into the office where no one is supposedly allowed. I don’t know why I thought it wouldn’t be a big deal. Like James would just say, Hey, I need to talk to you in private, and that would be it.
But James intentionally pissed Croc off to get some kind of punishment or consequence for his insubordination. I assume the very least he’ll get is a major tongue-lashing. What I’m worried about is the other end of that scale—the very worst. How badly did Croc beat James as a kid? Does he still do it? Is that how Croc keeps him in line? I have a really hard time picturing James taking a beatdown now that he’s an adult, but I don’t know the extent of the hold this asshole has over him, and it’s eating at me more and more every second.
Chapter Twelve
John
Croc punches a code into the keypad, it blinks green as the lock disengages, then he pushes the door open and holds it for James to walk through before it slams shut behind them.
My relief that I can see them through the large window is short-lived as the blinds are snapped closed. Fuck. The bug will transmit the audio back to our local headquarters where only a select few have clearance to the information recorded. My name is on that short list, but I won’t get the transcripts from it for a while. Which means I have no way of knowing what they’re saying unless James gets chatty, and I have about as much chance of that happening as I do an Acme anvil spontaneously falling on my head.
Anxiety rides me hard and I want to pace the floor, but that would raise suspicion. While it appears as though everyone’s busy doing shit, I have no doubt I’m being watched. Grabbing a nearby metal folding chair, I park my ass on it backwards, forearms resting on the back. Then I get out my butterfly knife and start running through some simple tricks. Nothing flashy, but enough to keep my nervous energy busy while showing anyone who cares to pay attention that I’ve got some obvious knife skills, which should at least make them wary of what else I might have up my sleeve. With my extensive martial arts background, I have a lot more weapons training than what flipping around this Balisong implies, but they don’t need to know that.
Jesus, what the hell is going on in that office? I check my watch and blow out a breath like I’m bored as fuck when I’m anything but. It’s been five minutes already. Not long in the grand scheme of a day but an eternity when I think about all the shit that might be going on behind that door.
I have to stop thinking worst-case scenarios. James isn’t a teenager powerless against his guardian anymore. He’s a strong man who chooses to work for the snake who bit him repeatedly when he was a kid. I have to believe he wouldn’t put himself in that position if Croc was still a viable threat to him.
In my peripheral, Tito pushes himself up and waddles his way over to two of the other grease monkeys standing about twenty feet away from me. I’m sure they’re supposed to be working on the cars lifted in their bays, but they don’t appear to be in any hurry to do their jobs. The entire time we’ve been here, they’ve been leaning against the back wall, smoking and drinking cans of beer. Tito starts speaking to them in hushed tones as they sneak glances at me.
I mentally roll my eyes. Look out for these guys; they’re regular spies. “Keep looking at me like that, Tito, and I’m gonna think you have a crush on me,” I say with a smirk and a wink.
I’ve never seen a man turn beet red so quickly. What tiny bit of logic he has—the part that should remind him that I’m twice his size and currently holding a large blade—snaps, and he charges in my dire
ction. “I’ll show you a crush, you fucking fa—”
I pop to my feet, prepared to introduce this homophobic bastard to my fist, when the office door bursts open, interrupting Tito’s tirade. James storms out like a tornado with a mind for destroying everything in his path. His stride doesn’t break as he cocks his arm back and lays Tito out with a single right cross to the jaw.
The other guys react like they’re ringside spectators at a WWE match, obviously not giving a shit that their coworker is lying prone and spitting out blood and a couple of his teeth.
James crouches next to him. “Stay down, Tito. Slugs belong in the dirt.” He pats Tito’s already swollen face hard enough to make the guy groan and flinch away, then gets up and walks out of the shop.
Staying in character, I smile and flip Tito off as I follow after my captain. Oh Captain, my Captain. My teenage self is ready to stand on a desk and spout poetry after that virile display of power, but I shove all that down when I get to the car. As soon as I climb inside, I turn all my attention to the man sitting next to me, doing his best to pretend I’m not here as he pulls out of the lot and takes off down the road like a bat out of hell.
“What happened in there?” I ask.
“I placed the bug under the edge of his desk; what do you think?”
“I didn’t doubt you would. I meant what happened between you and Croc?”
His jaw clenches so hard that the muscle jumps beneath the dark hair, and his hand tightens on the steering wheel until the leather groans in protest. “Nothing happened.”
“Really,” I deadpan. “You just stared at each other for ten minutes, and then you decided to leave in a murderous rage for no damn reason?”
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