Page 9 of Remade

At Hillcroft, we were instructed to leave as small a digital footprint as we could. No real names on social media, no pictures of ourselves…

In retrospect, it explained how private Ryan and Darius were online. The only picture I’d seen of Darius had been a grainy staff photo on his fish camp’s website. Like, thumbnail-size.

Still no movement from the workers.

I scratched my jaw. “Can I get an update on what’s happened today? I’m extremely out of the loop.”

“I can give you the recruit-friendly version,” Beckett conceded. How nice of him. “We were dealing with the Texas Hahns when we realized there was a second crew involved. Since then, we’ve learned that this crew is here permanently, and they have two locations for their drug operations—one for housing, one for drug distribution. The captain or whatever of the other crew is hiding out here. It’s our last location to take care of.”

I chewed on the corner of my lip, figuring it was the first crew’s leader Beckett was primarily after since he’d been in charge the day Vince had been killed.

“Isn’t it harder to deal with an established drug crew than some random low-men on a poorly funded mission?”

“It’s not easier,” he agreed. “We’re equipped to deal with both, though.”

“What about the top man himself?” I pressed. “I understand Karl Hahn doesn’t give two shits about Nassim or even the guy who murdered your brother, but it feels like he’d care if his US drug money suddenly stopped filling his pockets.”

“He’s welcome to file a complaint with me.”

Fuck my ass, that was hot.

“Focus now, pup. We have movement.”

I concentrated and slowed down, but the four men I could see were still not moving. “How many are there? I only see four.”

“All seven are accounted for. Three coming in slowly on your right flank.”

I rolled my shoulders and turned again, this time angling myself differently in an attempt to see the other three men.

“It looks like an attack to me,” Beckett murmured. “Iamchill.” He had to be saying that to someone else, maybe Crew or Ryan or Hudson.

“They’re not armed, so there’s no rush,” I said under my breath. “Do you have a plan other than finding out if they’re friendlies or not?”

“We want their phones,” he replied. “There’s at least one.”

Fair enough.

I stretched my arms over my head and pretended to yawn, and it allowed me to get a better look when I wasn’t staring at the ground. Two of the men were approximately forty feet away, so it was time to shut up. Within the next few seconds, they’d be able to hear me.

“When do I make a show of spotting them?” I scrubbed a hand over my mouth.

“Wait until the closest are within five or six yards.”

One could also say fifteen feet, but whatever.

“Stand down until I ask for backup,” I muttered. “If you want the phones, I’ll get you the phones.”

“There are seven of them,” he grated out. I could hear Crew asking something in the background, and Beckett responded. “He wants us to stand down until he asks for backup.”

I was out of time. One of the men took a few steps away from the last tree he’d used to shield himself, and it would look suspect if I didn’t notice him.

I glanced up and stiffened as we locked eyes, and then I quickly grabbed at my nonexistent gun, alerting them to an empty holster. Now he knew I’d “forgotten” I wasn’t armed, and Ryan had been right. The man relaxed and cocked a brow, and he walked toward me.

“What’re you doing here?” I asked. “I still don’t speak Spanish.No Español.”

He wasn’t the older guy I’d pegged for the leader in the van. This man was younger, late twenties or so. He had a scar across his cheek, so I naturally named him Cheeks.

“Your friends?” he asked.

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