I sigh and shut off the water.
My cellphone is ringing when I emerge from the bathroom. I race to it, thinking it might be her, but of course it’s not. Even if she had my number, she wouldn’t call me. Not after today. My brows lift as I see Tomlinson’s name on the caller ID screen. It’s been less that four hours since we left the ball field. Somehow, it feels like an eternity.
“Miss me already?” I ask upon answering.
“Terribly,” he responds. “So much, in fact, I’ve spent the last hour talking to my Dad about your proposition.”
“And? What did Chief Tomlinson have to say?”
“He called a friend in the DA’s office to ask about best procedure. Apparently, there’s already an open investigation into increasing gang activity in the North Shore area.”
I nod. “I’m not surprised this is already on their radar. Everyone at the docks is talking about it; they treat it like an open secret. The Kings aren’t exactly being discreet. And a crew of tattooed ex-cons doesn’t really fit into the Yankee Doodle demographic.”
Chris chuckles. “Be that as it may, sleepy little harbors like Gloucester, Manchester, and Rockport have become prime locations for smuggling drugs from offshore rigs onto dry land. And since many of those drugs come all the way up the coast from our southern neighbors….”
“It’s federal jurisdiction.”
“Correct.” He blows out a breath. “My Dad’s contact at the DA said they’ve escalated the investigation. Kicked it over to the Drug Enforcement Administration — the DEA — to take point. There’s a special task force in place to coordinate with the Coast Guard for water coverage, plus local police departments for additional ground support the day of the raid.”
“So it’s really going to happen, then. They’re planning to raid the docks.”
“Depending on some things.”
“Such as?”
“You, mostly.”
“Me?”
“Look, Reyes, I’m going to be honest with you — you could be the break the DEA needs to crack this operation wide open. Apparently, they’ve been trying to get enough evidence to justify a warrant for weeks. But your brother’s crew is being especially careful. Speculation isn’t enough. Rumors aren’t proof. Surveillance teams have gotten jack-shit, watching the warehouse from afar. They need someone inside. On that trawler.”
“To confirm there are drugs present.”
“Not just drugs. They also need intel on how many men are in Jaxon’s crew. Plus, what kind of heat they’re packing. The last thing anyone wants is a shootout at a commercial port with all kinds of innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire. The US government can’t afford a WACO-style fuckup.”
“I don’t know anything about guns. Even if I get onboard…”
“They don’t need specifics. Just a general count, along with a basic description.” He pauses. “Three gangbangers with some basic pieces they bought out of some dude’s trunk makes for an entirely different scenario than a full crew locked and loaded with serious, semi-automatic firepower at their disposal. You feel me?”
“I feel you, Tomlinson.”
“The DEA guys will tell you more in person. What to look for, what to take note of when you’re onboard. Entry points, potential exits, hidden compartments. They’ll walk you through everything — the wire you’ll be wearing, the camera.”
“Camera?”
“It’s tiny. Size of a dime. You won’t even know it’s there.”
“I’m more worried about Jaxon knowing it’s there…”
“Don’t worry. You’ll get a full debrief before they send you in. That’s your chance to sort through any performance anxiety.”
“I don’t get performance anxiety. You must be thinking of yourself, Tomlinson.”
“That’s the cocky bastard I know and love.” I hear the grin in his voice. “Reyes, I mean it — you may be going in alone, but you’re not going in unprepared. These agents at the DEA are professionals. They know what they’re doing. They know how to keep you safe.”
“Mhm.” I breathe deeply, pinching the bridge of my nose with two fingers. I’m struggling to wrap my mind around all of this. Trusting the system to work for me instead of against me… Putting my faith in the police to handle things efficiently, when they’ve fumbled so spectacularly in the past… It’s a foreign sensation. It doesn’t sit naturally inside my skin. My body is in full fight-or-flight mode, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end, my pulse hammering inside my veins.
“You still with me, Reyes?”
I clear my throat. “I’m here.”
“You still up for this? I’m asking, because… Well, they want to bring you in for a debrief as soon as possible.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“That a problem?”
“No,” I mutter. “I just didn’t think this would happen so fast.”
“In the DEA’s mind, your brother’s crew is highly prone to pulling up anchor at the first whiff of law enforcement sniffing around their business. They want to make a move before that happens.”
“Right.” I suck in a gulp of air. “Okay. That makes sense.”
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be, Tomlinson.”
“I’ll come pick you up in a few hours, then.”
When we disconnect the call, I take a series of deep breaths, forcing my frantic heartbeats to slow. When I’d wished for a distraction from thoughts of Jo back in the shower, I’d certainly never expected this.
A reckless part of me is glad for any diversion. Even a dangerous one that could backfire disastrously. But an eerily calm part of me is too laser-focused on the endgame to think about the potential danger.
Jaxon, out of my life.
For good this time.
Behind bars, where he belongs.
Where he can’t hurt the people I love anymore.
Where he can’t threaten the girl I love, anymore.
This is happening.
There’s no backing out, now.
And, as I stare into my closet, wondering what the fuck one wears to discuss becoming a confidential informant in a sting operation, I realize I don’t want to back out. I want the mess my brother created wiped clean.
I’m done with the past.
My gaze is locked on my future.
Our future.
Jo’s and mine.
TWENTY-NINE
josephine
My tires crunch against the driveway as I pull to a stop in front of Cormorant House. The mansion looks foreboding as ever in the darkness as I shut the engine and climb out into the night. The rain has finally stopped, but a drizzly mist hangs in the air. It clings to my hair and coats my skin as I walk up the front steps to the imposing front door.
This is the last place I want to be, tonight.
My parents’ domain.
Each step against the flagstones positions me a bit more firmly back under their thumb. I do my best to shake off the sensation and force myself to keep moving. I feel like a lamb walking blithely into a slaughterhouse — even as I assure myself it won’t be for much longer.