Page 16 of Property of Bones

“Damnit, Spike. Someone’s out for your blood.”

“No, someone’s trying to play me for a fool,” he spits. “And if I get my hands on Billy before you do, I’ll rip him apart. So, hurry the fuck up.”

I curse under my breath and gun the engine harder.

We got word that Billy, Spike’s idiot cousin, has set up shop in an abandoned area of Palm Springs. Spike’s convinced he’s behind the Fentanyl movement.

Maybe he is.

But I’ve got a gut feeling...

Billy’s too damn stupid to be the one pulling strings. He might be a piece on the board, but someone else is playing the game.

And we’re already ten steps behind.

Foster has Billy pinged at Eastgate, the old warehouse district. That place is a ghost town and home to most of Palm Springs’ illegal activities. The Iron Shadows have no claim over Eastgate. It’s neutral territory. As long as dealers keep their business inside the four blocks of Eastgate, we Shadows let them be.

But someone thought they could take that silent truce and wipe their ass with it.

They brought fentanyl intoourtown. Into neighborhoods with kids. Into stores where our women shop. That crosses a line no one comes back from.

And if Billy had even afingerin it?

I’ll break it off and shove it down his throat.

Foster’s got his location pinged, but we’re not the only ones watching. Eastgate might be neutral ground, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe. It means no one owns it. And when no one owns it, everybody thinks they can.

It’s the kind of place where bodies disappear and no one asks why.

In less than ten minutes, I’m parked at the coordinates Foster sent. Five minutes later, Spike and Tank pull in beside me.

“You don’twait, do you?” I growl as he climbs out of his blacked-out Charger.

“You weren’t moving fast enough,” he snaps, eyes locked on the warehouse door like it just insulted his mother.

“That is how you get shot in the back, Spike,” I tell him. “Charging in hot without a damn plan.”

“I’ve got a plan,” he mutters. “It’s called ‘beat the truth out of Billy.’”

I move to stand beside him, scanning the area. Quiet. Too quiet. “You sure he’s in there?”

“I called him once Foster was certain,” he admits. “Told him I wanted to talk. He said to come here…alone.”

I grunt. “And you listened.”

Spike glances at me, and for a second, the mask slips. Just a little. Enough for me to see the rage underneath isn’t just about betrayal. It’s personal. Family always is.

“He’s blood, Bones,” Spike says, voice low and tight. “But if he’s behind this shit, if he’s pushing poison into our town, he’s dead to me. Last week, a ten-year-old OD’d. Thought he was taking Tylenol he found in his dad’s dresser. One dose of fentanyl. Enough to kill five grown-ass men. He didn’t stand a chance.”

Tank steps up beside him, face carved in stone. “A couple days ago, a pregnant woman died from the same cause. Didn’t take a single thing. She helped some guy who collapsed on the street. The junkie dropped his stash when he went down. Powder must’ve gotten on her skin. She went home, fell asleep, never woke up.”

“I know he’s involved in some way,” Spike continues. “He gave himself away when he asked to transport the shit through our territory a few months back. I want to know who the hell is responsible.”

I nod once. Then cock my gun. “Let’s find out.”

We move as one.

Spike goes straight for the door, Tank and I flanking him like the dogs of war. The warehouse is a skeleton of rusted metal and busted dreams. The roof half-collapsed, windows boarded like someone gave a damn. The air reeks of oil and old piss. Welcome to Eastgate.

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