Forty-Five

The warehouse was exactly were Phillip Song said it would be, crammed into to the middle of an industrial park on Bayshore, just south of Loomis. Michael drove past the deserted-looking building before circling back and parking a few blocks away. The place may have looked abandoned, but he knew a front when he saw one. Discreet security cameras, wire mesh embedded in high-set windows, a single door set off the street and partially hidden by a Dumpster, what looked like a bay door big enough for a box truck around back.

With its lack of entry points and hidden security cameras, a stealth approach was going to be nearly impossible. Good thing he came prepared.

Without the soft rumble of the car engine, Michael could hear the distant thump of music coming from the nightclub across the street, the line to get in wrapped around the building. It made him think of the night he’d spent with Pia Cordova. What he’d done to her father. What he’d done to her.

He could still see her standing at the top of the stairs, open blouse clutched against her exposed breasts, staring down at him with a mixture of fear and confusion that quickly bled into something else …

Recognition.

He’d lied to Ben when he’d said that Pia hadn’t recognized him from that night at the club. She’d known exactly who he was and as soon as the bullets started flying, she’d known exactly what he’d done. He swiped a rough hand over his face, trying desperately to scrub away the memory, but it wouldn’t budge.

Guilt ate at him. Pushing him to do something he hadn’t done in years. Not since he found out Frankie was dead.

He wanted to drink.

If he was completely honest with himself—which was a rarity these days—he’d admit that the urge had very little to do with Pia Cordova or the shit storm he’d unleashed on her over the past few days. She was just another job, just another casualty. No. This was about Sabrina and what being so close to her did to him. What it made him want and wish. What it made him remember and regret.

Leaning into the dash, Michael popped the trunk before stepping out of the car to circle around back. He shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it into the trunk before reaching for what Ben liked to call the prop box. Inside it was a variety of umbrellas, a few baseball caps, sunglasses, a couple of maps, a fake arm cast … and a bottle of booze.

He stared at it for a few seconds, contemplating what he wanted, measuring it against what he should do instead.

Before he allowed himself to think it through, Michael snatched the bottle out of the box and cracked the lid. Lifting it to his lips, he pulled the liquor through clenched teeth and into his mouth. He held it there for a moment, eyes closed, letting the taste and sting of it settle against his tongue. He could feel the urge to swallow working at the back of his throat. A reflex he’d never been able to fight. Had never even wanted to.

It had been a promise he’d made to Lucy, nothing more, that forced him to dry out—and Lucy was dead. There was nothing and no one who cared anymore. No promises left to break.

Sabrina’s face flashed in front of him and that was enough.

Michael swished the liquor around his mouth a few times before he turned his head to the side and spit it into the street. Next he poured a bit into his hands and rubbed them together before applying it to his skin like aftershave, coating himself liberally until he smelled as drunk as he wished he actually was.

Recapping the bottle, he tossed it back into the box before fitting the fake cast onto his arm and grabbing a pair of mirrored aviators. Easing the trunk lid down, he heard the muted click of the latch as he pocketed the keys.

He staggered away from his car and covered the couple of blocks between where he parked and the warehouse in a drunken gait, weaving slightly, like a guy who was tore up but still trying to keep his cool. He passed a few groups, tight clutches of people on their way to the nightclub he’d seen, hoping tonight was the night they’d get past the velvet ropes.

He kept walking, straight for the building, the drunken lurch he’d affected announcing his approach as he purposely slammed into the side of the Dumpster, the cast on his arm ringing against the sheet metal like a gong.

For the benefit of the security camera mounted to the side of door, he spun around in a quick circle as if looking for the source of the sound. “Oh, shit,” he said, tipping into the door, knocking his aviators askew. To whoever was manning the feed, he’d look like nothing more than another harmless Saturday-night douche bag looking for a party. He knew the old adage, People only see what they want to see, was a lie. People saw what you showed them. Most were too lazy and arrogant to look past what was shoved in front of their face. No one wanted to see the truth. To believe they were vulnerable. That they were about to die.

“Lemme in,” he slurred loudly, banging the cast against the heavy metal door, the clang of it much deeper than the Dumpster. Solid core—no way he was kicking that bitch in. A couple of those concussion grenades were looking pretty good right now. He kept up with the banging, drawing as much unwanted attention as he could. People passing on the street were looking in his direction, wondering what the hell was going on. Good. The more people looked, the more likely they were to open the door, just to shut him up. “Hey, come on … open up, I got friends in the VIP—”

There was a scraping noise, metal on metal, a few seconds before the door opened. “Get the fuck out of here, man. The club’s down the street,” the guy at the door said as he tossed his head, flashing his scorpion neck tat. This was Reyes’s place alright.

“Naw, man—this is the place.” Michael shouldered his way in, leading with his cast, using it to distract the guy from the fact that his other hand was reaching into the folds of his jacket to draw his Kimber. A few yards away, three men sat at a folding card table, topped with a pair of dice and a scattered stack of crumpled bills. “Hey, whaddya playin’?”

The guy grabbed his casted arm, yanking him back. “This ain’t no fuckin’ club, white boy—”

That was as far as he got, the suppressed bullet that slammed into his chest throwing him back against the wall. The trio stood in unison, each reaching for their weapons with varying degrees of speed, but it didn’t matter—two of them were dead before they even pulled their guns clear, leaving the third with his hand hovering above the grip that protruded from the waistband of his pants, eyes glued to the gun in Michael’s hand. He was one of Reyes’s lieutenants—older, more seasoned than the dead guys that bracketed him.

Michael kicked the door shut behind him before speaking. “Hey, Hector.” He removed the aviators so the last guy standing could get a good look at his face. “Remember me?”

“Yeah. The nanny.” The guy cracked a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“That’s right, I am the nanny. But you can call me Cartero.” He smiled back a split second before he pulled the trigger, blowing out Hector’s knee. The guy dropped like a rock, any thought he’d had of pulling his gun and trying to shoot his way out gone, leaving him a writhing bloody mess.

Michael holstered his gun long enough to pull the fake cast off his arm and drop it on the ground. Now Hector was screaming, clutching at the ragged jumble of meat and bone where his knee had been only a few seconds before.

Michael waited, gun leveled at the hallway leading to a bank of offices to the right. No one came running. No one else was here. “Anyone else in the building?” he said, just to be sure.

Hector’s head shook back and forth, his voice too strangled with screams and tears to answer him properly.

“Is that a no?” he said, watching Hector dispassionately. This man sold children. He deserved no sympathy.

“Alone … we …” Hector managed to choke out between screams.

“Perfect.” He pulled off his belt and hunkered down next to the wailing man. He used it as a tourniquet to control the blood flow. “We can’t have you bleeding out just yet, can we now?” Michael said, giving Hector a heavy-handed pat on his injured leg. “Not before you give me what I’m looking for.”