Squall Line (The Inland Seas Series Book 1)

by Gwyn McNamee

  “What’s wrong?”

  His head snaps back up toward mine, and his lip curls into a sneer. “Are you really going to start asking questions again? Didn’t we have this conversation?”

  I raise my hands in surrender and step back. “I’m sorry. I just…you’re clearly upset about something.”

  “How is that any of your business?”

  He’s right. It’s not.

  But I can’t seem to stop myself.

  “It’s not my business.”

  “Fuck!” He grinds his teeth together and shoves his hand back through his wet hair. The struggle going on inside him races forward in the tension in his body and shaking hands. “You should know. Especially if you’re continuing to do business with these people.”

  “What people?”

  With a sigh, he nods toward the door. “It’s easier if I show you.”

  He wraps his hand around my bicep and practically drags me from the room.

  I stumble on the stairs, unable to keep up with his long stride and speed as he powers down them. He leads us barefoot across the dirty, cold concrete floor of the warehouse to where the ship that just came in sits at the dock.

  There’s no sign of the other guys or Milo, which for some reason has me breathing a sigh of relief.

  I may not trust Warwick fully, but the others…I sure as hell don’t trust any of them even a little.

  9

  War

  I thought I knew anger. I thought I had lived with it and let it burn inside me long enough that it was my old friend. I thought I understood it and had accepted its dark, pulsating presence in my life. I was dead wrong.

  Because this…what is coursing through me at this very moment, is something far worse than anger. Something far darker, more malicious and malevolent. Something that will bring me to do even those things I never thought I could in my deepest heart.

  My grip on Grace’s arm is probably too tight as I drag her over to the ladder of The Destiny. Still, she doesn’t fight it.

  Maybe she’s finally accepted what I’ve been trying to convince her is true since the moment we boarded her ship—she doesn’t have control here. Just like us, she’s become a pawn in the Marconis’ game.

  A game that just got deadlier.

  From the second we opened that first crate and pulled away the top layer of boxes of machine parts, I knew everything had changed. I never questioned what was in the boxes Il Padrone had us acquire.

  Maybe I did have my head in the sand about what we’ve been doing, but I never, in a million years, would have suspected this.

  It’s just not the M.O. of the Italians. It shouldn’t be happening.

  I stop at the base of the ladder and shove her in front of me. “Climb.” She looks back at me, her green eyes wide like a damn doe about to be shot. I motion upward. “Go.”

  She hesitates only briefly before she begins her ascent. For someone so petite, her legs sure seem to go for miles as they move inch by inch up in front of my face.

  A fraction of my anger recedes, replaced by something far more dangerous. Something I shouldn’t be feeling for this woman. Something that could get both of us in a lot of trouble.

  Rung by rung, hand over hand, I make my way up behind her, fighting the urge to look up because my boxers are huge on her and do very little to conceal anything.

  Knock it off.

  She makes it to the top and swings her leg over with some slight difficulty, then stands up and moves to the side so I can get aboard. Once I’m on deck, I grab her arm again and pull her over to where the pallets sit toward the back of the boat.

  Three of the six are open, their false contents strewn about with all the real contents in the center of the boxes.

  “Look.”

  Her terrified eyes drift up to meet mine momentarily before she shifts and takes a step forward. She leans over to see inside the opened crates. She gasps and jerks back. “Is that what I think it is?”

  A shaky hand snakes out as if she’s about to grab one of the packages, but I slap her hand away.

  “You want your fingerprints all over that?”

  She shakes her head and steps back. “So, it’s drugs?”

  I scrub at my unshaven jaw, nod, and step away to pace. “Heroin.”

  “No!” She sucks in a breath. “Holy shit.”

  Her reaction seems genuine, but I can’t shake the niggling feeling in the back of my head that maybe she isn’t as innocent as she claims to be.

  I don’t want to believe she knew. Hell no. She hasn’t been acting like she had a clue, but people rarely surprise me anymore with what they’re capable of. Especially when they’re pushed by something.

  “You swear to me you didn’t know what was in these crates?”

  She whirls around, her eyes darkening and flashing with anger. “Do you really think I would’ve transported them if I knew what was in them?”

  “I’ve seen crazier things.”

  People do things when they’re desperate.

  “Well, I didn’t know.”

  The emotion in her voice is real. She didn’t know. She couldn’t have known. If she had, she would have run straight to the police. Which doesn’t bode well for us when all is said and done.

  But just because she’s innocent in this doesn’t mean everyone is.

  “What about your father?”

  Her brow furrows, and she narrows her eyes at me. “What about him?”

  “Is it possible he knew what was going on? What he was transporting? He was scheduled to make this delivery, right?”

  “What? No, of course not. My dad would never…no matter how bad money was, he would never go that far, never allow that. He had morals. He had a backbone.”

  Ouch. That stung.

  She doesn’t know everything, so I shouldn’t take it personally, but once she does know, that statement already tells me everything I need to know about what she’ll think of me and my choices that got us here.

  “You said the business was going under. You’re almost bankrupt, right?”

  A tiny nod is her only response. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head.

  “People do a lot of things when they’re desperate, that they might not consider otherwise, Grace.”

  She studies me for a moment, then leans against the crate. “It sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

  One of her pale red eyebrows rises, and she waits for me to respond.

  Fuck.

  What does it hurt to tell her at this point? She already knows too much as it is.

  What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of Jack right now. This would be so much easier with some liquid courage.

  Instead, I suck in a deep breath and lean back against the crate next to her. This will fucking hurt, but maybe helping her understand will make her more compliant. If she stops fighting me, stops arguing and asking questions, it will make things easier on all of us.

  I can’t believe I’m telling her this.

  “My mother was the town librarian. She got me reading at a very young age and kept me with my nose in a book as much as possible. I think she thought it would somehow quell some of the less admirable qualities she was seeing in me as a child.”

  I snort and shake my head at the memory of being dragged into a parent-teacher conference after beating the shit out of Jimmy Ellis in third grade. The little shit deserved it, and Dad knew it. Mom, on the other hand, would have preferred a more diplomatic resolution to the situation.

  “My dad owned a commercial fishing company, as you know. He was a drinker, but as long as Mom was around, he kept it pretty much in control. He was never violent or abusive, just a drunk.” I suck in another fortifying breath and scrub my hands over my face to fight the burn threatening in my eyes. “Mom died when I was fourteen. Aggressive pancreatic cancer. She was gone within a month of her diagnosis.”

  I pause and swallow through the lump in my throat.

  I can’t let this woman see me
cry.

  Walking will help. I shove off from the crate and pace along the planks of the deck.

  “After she died, Dad barely held it together. He started drinking more and one of his captains stepped up and helped with the business when he was too drunk and incapable of handling things. I helped too, as much as I could at that age.”

  Which wasn’t much. I was useless at anything in the office, but I knew how to drive a boat. So, I spent most of my time out on the water, which was my favorite place to be, besides the library. The cool, crisp air. The tangy, fresh smell of the water. The relaxing sounds of the waves slapping against the hull. It was my safe place. A place where nothing and no one could touch me.

  And now…it’s tainted with everything I’ve done. Everything that could have been had I taken another path.

  “My mom had set aside money for me to go to college. It was always her big dream for me to get out of that place, to do something bigger and better, to not end up working on the boats like my dad. She loved our life, and she loved him, but she had dreams for me. Maybe ones that weren’t very realistic, but she had them nonetheless.”

  I chance a glance in Grace’s direction to ensure she’s still with me. Her red-rimmed eyes follow my every movement, and she hangs on every word.

  She’s finally getting what she’s wanted this entire time. A fucking answer.

  “I tried to convince him to let me stay home and help with the business after I graduated from high school, but for being an old drunk, he sure stuck to his guns. He knew it was what Mom really wanted and that she would be rolling over in her grave if she saw me skipping school just to stay home and help him. So, I went to college, and my dad got worse.”

  Worse is an understatement. It was a shitshow. And at the time, I was happy to be away from it.

  Classes, studying, girls, parties…it all took my mind off what I had lost, what I was losing. I shut the rest of the world out and lived in that tiny slice that was campus life. I let myself believe things would be fine when I was done and out. That Dad was fine.

  I was so damn wrong.

  “Dad’s employees kept all the shit together. Until they couldn’t anymore.”

  I pause and stare up at the metal beams of the ceiling. This isn’t a memory I want to relive. It’s something better locked away in that deep, dark place I store all the shit that brings forth my rage. But it’s too late for that anyway. Far too late.

  “He OD’d. They found him with a needle in his arm.”

  Grace’s shaky, soft voice floats across the space between us. The woman so full of questions has managed to sit silently until now. “OD’d on what?”

  I nod toward the pallet, and she covers her mouth. Tears form in her eyes.

  “I came home to discover the business was in far worse shape than they told me. We were essentially bankrupt. He spent the vast majority of the money on booze and drugs and had racked up debts even his crews and office manager weren’t aware of. I had no idea it had become that bad, that he had moved on from the booze.”

  It’s my fault for not being there.

  I close my eyes and rub at my temples to try to clear the memories away, to try to send the guilt floating off into the cool air. But it still sits heavy on my chest.

  “So, then, did you go back to school?”

  I sigh and shake my head while I pace.

  It’s the obvious question, and this time, it doesn’t make me mad. Instead, regret forms a lump in my throat.

  “No. I probably should have. Just sold what was left of the business to pay off the debts and moved on. But I couldn’t. For all of his faults, my father was a good man. The business was his legacy to me, to our family name. It was what I was born into and even though Mom wanted something greater for me, I couldn’t let go. Not that easily.”

  What a fucking colossal mistake.

  My weakness. My sentimentality. My need to hang on so desperately to something that was long dead. It all led us here.

  “I started looking for a way to try to salvage it.”

  She nods. She’s starting to get a better picture of how we ended up in this mess. But she has no idea what the stakes are.

  “An old friend of my dad’s told me he knew someone who could help me. He was a friend in Chicago. He set up a meeting. I was young and dumb and still reeling from my father’s death. His name was Galasso Marconi but everyone just calls him Il Padrone.”

  I wait for the name to register, but she stares at me blankly.

  “He’s the head of the Italian mob in Chicago and has been for a long time. I should’ve known better than to get involved with him, but he seemed so understanding and sympathetic to my plight.”

  And why wouldn’t he be?

  It was what he thrived on—finding people who were down and out, weak and willing, people who could offer him something and provide a service. People willing to do anything…

  Christ, I was so stupid.

  “He offered me five hundred thousand dollars. Enough to pay off all the debts and have some left over for continuing operating expenses. All he wanted in return was for me to transport some cargo for him to work off the debt. It seemed reasonable.”

  It would be impossible for her not to see where this is going now. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how things went south so damn fast.

  I just never saw it coming.

  Young and naïve. The same things I accused her of being.

  “The first couple jobs were just picking things up in Traverse City, Toronto, or Cleveland, and moving them to Chicago. It was easy. I didn’t ask questions. Then, after a few runs, he told me the next job was different. That I needed to make sure I had a crew who wasn’t afraid to get their hands dirty if need be.”

  She turns her head back toward the warehouse, searching for the guys. Only an empty space greets her.

  Thank God for that.

  If they knew I was vomiting my life story to her, they would call me out on being a fucking pussy and probably walk away from this tonight.

  “At that point, I was trapped. I couldn’t say no. Not if I wanted to stay alive. I couldn’t repay that debt any other way. So, I got my guys together, ones I knew had certain skill sets and training, and we did our first real job. After that…most of the jobs weren’t so easy anymore.”

  I return to my perch on the side of the crate, and she searches my face for a moment before her eyes dart to the contents. “But you had to suspect what was in these crates. How did you not know?”

  I growl and dig my fingers into the rough wood of the crate. “The Italians aren’t into drugs. That’s one thing they never dealt in historically. There was no reason to think they would be transporting them and bringing them into Chicago.”

  She snorts and laughs softly. “And you called me naïve.”

  Rage floods my veins, and I shove to my feet, towering over her. Her ashen face and quivering lip should give me pause, should help me rein in the fire consuming me, but it doesn’t. It can’t. Nothing can.

  Who the hell is she to call me naïve? She doesn’t know me, know my life.

  Fuck her.

  “Fuck you, Grace. Go back to my room and stay there.”

  I storm past her and jump down onto the dock.

  Cutter pushes off the side of the boat not three feet to my left.

  Fuck.

  He heard everything. Even through his mirrored glasses, the accusation in his stare burns my skin and tells me he didn’t miss a word. He must have already been out here, maybe around the back and hidden when we came out.

  “Make sure she goes up and stays there.”

  He doesn’t dare argue. Not when I’m like this. And I don’t wait for a response. I just blow past him and back toward Preacher’s nerd lair.

  We need to figure out where to get twenty kilos of heroin. Fast.

  10

  Grace

  If I said I slept fifteen minutes last night, that would probably be an exaggeration. Warwick’s stor
y and his volatile response to my questions left me more rattled than I want to admit.

  I get it now. Why he’s doing this. How this all started.

  What I don’t understand is why he can’t get out. There has to be a way to pay off the debt. Warwick doesn’t seem like a pushover. So why is he letting Il Padrone continue to send him on these jobs? Why does he continue to put his life on the line, and the lives of his men? Why doesn’t he just say no?

  Il Padrone is dangerous—all these guys are. I’m not so naïve that I don’t understand that. But there has to be another way, another agreement that can be made. Maybe he can get a loan from a bank. Maybe it’s not too late to sell what’s left of the business.

  Though, I’m sure he’s already thought of that, and probably a hundred other possible ways out. He rejected them for one reason or another.

  Who am I to suggest them? It’s just his hostage intruding where she isn’t wanted or needed again.

  My stomach rumbles, and I crawl from the bed into the chilly air of the room. That storm front brought in cold weather I wasn’t expecting. And I definitely need to find some food.

  I step into the bathroom and pause, my eyes zeroing in on the stack of clothes sitting on the counter. Women’s clothes. But not mine.

  Where the hell did these come from? Did Warwick bring these in last night…or one of the other guys?

  He didn’t sleep in here. I didn’t even see him after he left me on the boat and the scary dude with the shades brought me up here. He must have slept somewhere else, and the thought that one of the other goons may have been in here during the few minutes I managed to doze off makes my stomach turn and any thought of food evaporate.

  I don’t want them anywhere near me unless I’m one hundred percent on guard. But Warwick…

  Shit.

  With him, it’s different. Different in a way that’s almost as terrifying as being kidnapped. I trust him. Even if I shouldn’t. Even though his anger and outbursts scare me.

  The way his lips molded to mine, the scrape of several days of growth covering his face against my sensitive skin, the way my heart raced when his arms wrapped around me…it was more than unexpected. It was…ethereal and terrifying.