Page 70 of Isaac

Jeremy greets him with a rough familiarity that speaks of many crossings, of deals made under the cover of darkness. He offers his hand for a shake. "Evening, EJ. How’s everything?"

The other men chime in with murmured acknowledgments.

"Who's the new guy?" EJ’s gaze locks onto me, sharp and assessing. His eyes slip down my figure, then crawl back up. Perhaps his attention has something to do with our shared heritage. Or perhaps he’s just careful.

"New blood. Name’s Hawk," Jeremy says, brief as a gunshot, and moves on. Venom on his lips is more than obvious.

After Jeremy and EJ talk quietly off to the side, I’m instructed to move to another truck while EJ commandeers my former seat next to Jeremy.

"Why the hell are we doing this at night if everything's above board?" I ask in a hushed tone as Seven nudges me toward his truck.

"Rez ain't too keen on gunrunning through their backyard," he explains, his voice equally low. "We keep it quiet, deal with EJ only. Man's got a foot in two worlds."

I nod, filing away every scrap of information I can get. "Is he reliable?" I ask, hoping to get the conversation about EJ going. I know reservation land is out of our jurisdiction. What happens on the rez usually stays on the rez. But collecting some extra intel on all of the moving parts of the operation is always useful. You never know when you’ll need this info.

"He’s solid. Been doing business with him ever since Isaac got out."

More questions pop up in my head but there’s no time to ask them.

We climb into the truck and get going.

Our convoy lumbers forward, wheels crunching over the gravel path that cuts through the rez. Despite my being slightlyapathetic about half of my ancestry at times, it feels sacrilegious, and I force down the discomfort crawling up my spine.

The legitimate business of tool transportation is nothing but a mask, a thin veneer over the contraband nestled within steel cavities. Nothing original about this operation but it’s smartly done. Has Isaac Thoreau written all over it.

Fuck.

I hate how he always gets inside my mind in the most inappropriate moment.

His kiss haunts me. The memory—very vivid at that—refuses to die. Even after so many hours that slowly turn into days, I can still taste him on my lips, a bittersweet mix of longing and danger that sears through my thoughts, leaving a trail of cigarette ash and unanswered questions.

Soon, we arrive at an unmarked road hugging the mountainous terrain, possibly near the border. There are several armed guards already waiting. I spot several more male figures hanging back, hiding in the foreground. One of them could be wearing some kind of uniform. It’s hard to tell.

"Stay sharp, boys," Jeremy grumbles once we’re out of the trucks. His hand is resting casually on the butt of his gun as he starts walking toward the group gathered further up the hill.

My pulse is a steady drumbeat despite the adrenaline flooding my veins. There's no room for falter. As Hawk, I’m solid with the gang now. I’m a member of Isaac's chosen few. But beneath the facade, I'm an interloper.

Slowly, Seven motions toward Jeremy and EJ, the message clear. I play by the rules—follow.

I do as I’m told, squinting against the dim light of dancing flashlights. Finally, the faces start coming into focus. As we near them, Jeremy flicks his chin up in acknowledgement at the man standing in the center. He tops it off with a brief, "Hey, man. What’s going on?"

Hispanic. Possibly in his early fifties. Sleek hair glistening when illuminated. Could be wearing several pounds of gold in various jewelry. Nothing extraordinary except he makes my danger instincts prickle like static electricity.

The man to his right is Native and wearing a tribal police uniform, his thumbs casually tucked into his belt. He says nothing, acknowledging our presence with an indifferent nod.

"Amigo! Good to see you." The center man opens his arms wide for a distance-hug mock-up but something tells me if you try to get to him closer than a foot, he’ll end you. "What did you bring me this time, huh?" He laughs a little. "Some nice Russian candy again?" Guy’s got a crazy streak judging by the unsettling glint in his eyes. He is flanked by two burly dudes, who I assume are his bodyguards based on the amount of firepower they’re packing.

As I’m filing this information away, my senses spike up to the highest levels.

I know it’s Toro before the names are even uttered.

The transaction unfolds with mechanical precision. The men's hands are quick and efficient as they transfer the cargo from our vehicles to their own, smaller vans. I’m not required to do anything, just stand and observe to make sure everything goes smoothly.

In the distance, coyotes howl, their cries a mournful serenade to the moon. It's a song of the forsaken, a reminder that in this world, trust is a currency spent sparingly, and love—a luxury none can afford.

"Seems risky to be moving the load this close to the border, no?" I murmur to Flynn, whose eyes never leave the transfer.

"Can't risk the big rigs on the trails," he says, nodding toward the man in the tribal police uniform. "Gabe guides 'em through the backways. Around the patrols. Trucks like these would get stuck or spotted before they even got halfway."

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