Page 126 of Diamond In The Rough

My heart stumbles in my chest. Dickerson’s words, spoken so fucking easily, so casually, leave me with burning acid biting at the bottom of my throat.

“W-which club?” Roscoe turns back to study my face, but I ignore his probing stare. I refuse to meet his eyes. “When is he intending to hit it?”

“Doesn’t matter, Agent Hale. You have no part in the operation.”

“When is he attempting the drive-by?!” I shove up from my chair and picture in my mind, not the terrifying man who held me against my will and broke me—heart and soul, but I picture that same strong, broad body lying on the filthy concrete, his belly filled with bullets and his life, snuffed out long before he’s done living. “Our entire operation this past year has been about keeping the Malones alive! It’s been about saving New York from an open war that would spill onto the streets and spell endless bloodshed.”

“You don’t?—”

“If Wilkes swings by that club and kills either of those brothers, the other will stop at nothing to get revenge. If Felix is shot, there’s no telling what Micah will do. And if Micah is shot…” I draw a deep, shuddering breath, filling my lungs until bursting. Then I release it again, closing my eyes for a long, private beat. “If Micah is harmed, Felix will set the whole country on fire in retribution.” Slowly, I open my eyes again and try with all my heart and soul to push intruding images from my mind.

Blood on my hands. Blood seeping from a powerful man’s body. My brain tosses cruel images to the forefront; Micah lying in the street. His expensive suit jacket splayed open and his white shirt glowing crimson. I see his already mutilated hand, searching for his wounds. His fingers, probing for where steel pierced skin.

“Our entire existence inside this building was constructed upon keeping Felix Malone from instigating a war no one, not even he himself, will be able to contain once first blood has been drawn. There is nothing he won’t do for his brother, so if you think Joseph Wilkes shooting his club up is something we can accept, then you can also be the one to explain why our city has been burned to the ground.” I look at the board behind my boss, the massive eight feet by five feet of screen, taking up most of the wall. Wilkes’ image stares back at me. Felix’s. Even Micah’s. Though the latter, I try desperately to ignore. “When is Wilkes hitting the club?”

“Tonight.” Sighing, Dickerson drops his head and shoulders in defeat, though at the same time, mine come up. “But we can’t confirm which club, and we have no clue what time it’ll go down. Felix is making it more difficult to track his whereabouts until he’s already at his destination, and we don’t have enough agents to cover every place he could be.”

“So what do you intend to do?” I look at Roscoe, whose dark eyes burn into mine. Then to Jazz, who simply watches me the way one would watch a kicked puppy hobbling in the street. My colleagues consider me nothing but a screw up, two operations in a row, busted wide open in the most horrifying way. Yet, neither time was my fault.

I become an easy target because I’m young and female. But my placement inside Micah’s home was going fine until our paperwork went to shit.

Not my fault.

My involvement in last year’s clusterfuck, leading me to an abandoned warehouse, was on Dickerson’s orders.

I do the fucking job, and I give it my all.

If I was a man, I’d be celebrated for my dedication to the law. But being a woman, I become an easy joke and disposable asset.

It sure becomes difficult to dedicate my life and safety to a badge that wouldn’t—and hasn’t—had my back when I’ve needed it in the past.

“Dickerson?” I study his eyes. His inability, or refusal, to meet my stare. “What are you gonna do about Wilkes tonight?”

“I don’t have any room to move here, Hale.”

“What?”

“I don’t have enough bodies to place inside every club the guy owns across this city, let alone the clubs he doesn’t own, but still frequents. I don’t have enough human resources, and spreading my agents out so I have a badge inside each building just puts them at risk, too.”

“What are you?—”

“I’m assigning you all to Wilkes, instead,” he rumbles. “Cover the shooter rather than the target.”

“So you hang Malone out to dry?” I step around my chair and push it in until it slams against the table, ruffling feathers of most everyone else in this room. Though not Jazzy. Not Roscoe. “You’re leaving them open and hoping Wilkes misses?”

“We don’t know where Malone will be! It makes sense to follow the gun instead. He’ll lead us wherever we have to go.”

“And in the meantime, he’s already there! Already rolling past the club with his guns hanging out the window. At that point, it’s too late.”

“Agent Hale!”

I spin on my heels and stride to the door. “You’re a shit boss, Dickerson!” I know, I know. Insubordination. “You’re simply not good at what you do.” I swing the door wide but stop and glance back to meet his eyes. “Your daddy has worked for the bureau since before you were born, so you were grandfathered in. Nepotism is ugly when lives are in your hands and you’re too inept to do what’s right.”

“If you approach Malone or that club, you’re fired! If you impede our investigation, you’ll go to prison.”

“And if I stay, I’ll die on the job due to your incompetence, or I’ll witness my friends die for the same reason. I’d rather do neither. But feel free to snitch about my disobedience to your father; at least then I can get a seat at his table and an audience with someone who gives a shit about those he commands.”

I release the door and stalk into the bullpen filled to the brim with agents who pour over desks and paperwork. Phones ring. Fingers tap against keyboards. Noise, noise, so much noise buzzing at the back of my skull, yet, I can’t make out any specific words. People talk, but I don’t know what they say.

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