Page 58 of Devil's Own: Roughneck

Sarge walks into the living room with his phone to his ear. He scans the area, his gaze landing on me. “Rough? Busy?”

“Nope.” Uncomfortable, but not busy.

“Headed that way now,” he says to whoever’s on the phone, then hangs up. “Trouble arranged for an ammo drop-off. We need to head down to the pier to pick up.” Trouble is another one of Sarge’s men. His real name is Ashe, but he got his name because Sarge says he was great at both getting them into and out of trouble.

“Better than sitting around doing nothing.” I stand and stretch. “Weapons?”

“Smart to have, just in case.”

“Right.” While he waits for me, I jog into the room I’m sharing with Cut to grab my peace. Then I rejoin Sarge.

“Carter,” he calls. “Keys.”

Carter steps out from his office, which is walls of computers with programs that would make the CIA weep with excitement, tossing a set of keys to Sarge. Sarge nods and we head outside to the garage where he keeps his stable of black Broncos, the SUV variety, augmented to remove any identifying wording or features for the men to use when on a mission.

Sarge bleeps the key fob to figure out which one he tossed the keys for and once we locate it, we fold the seats down in the back to give us room to load the ammo.

“Shouldn’t we take something bigger?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “We’re bringing a crate back here, then I have directions for where the rest goes. This is something they do. Different batches of ammo go to different locations to keep them from being tracked back to the men.”

Makes a hell of a lot of sense.

We climb in the front and I buckle in as Sarge maneuvers us out of the garage, down the driveway, and onto the road. Even not wearing our cuts, we donotfit in here. This neighborhood with giant houses and expensive cars, reeks of money. More money than I’ll ever see in my life.

Turn after turn, we end up at the pier, down at the boat launch. Yachts and million-dollar sailboats as far as the eye could see. About fifty yards from where we wait for our connection, there’s an open-door restaurant with tables that face the ocean. There’s a sea of white linen, pink polos, and khaki dock shoes chittering while they eat overpriced food and drink overpriced alcohol, most of them thinking these two things make them better than the rest of the world.

Both of us keep sharp eyes while we wait. That’s when Sarge turns and mutters, “Shit.”

I go on alert. “What?” I ask.

“Keep your head down. Blend.”

Blend? I’m a solid motherfucker and Sarge is tall with a military physique. We’re not the kind of men who blend. He wanted that he should’ve brought Cut with him.

“I know you.” A woman’s voice carries over the air at us and I look up to see who’s speaking.

Shitis right. I’d recognize her anywhere. “Greer’s mom?” I ask. What are the fucking chances?

A man holds her hand, helping her off one of those million-dollar sailboats. Once her feet hit the dock, she begins walking toward us.

“Sergeant. You’re Sergeant?” she asks, and I have to bite my lip to keep from barking out the laugh just waiting to break free. The dumb bitch doesn’t even know his name.

Rather than correct her because we’re supposed to be in Kentucky right now, he says, “Dustin.”

“Dustin?” she asks as if him having an actual first name is the wildest concept she could think of.

The woman looks around. “Where is my daughter?”

“Back home,” he answers, not giving her any emotion. “With the kids.”

The woman jerks her head back, blinking. “The…kids?” she asks.

“Got two. The third on the way.”

“My daughter has two children and one on the way?”

“Wehave two, a girl and a boy. Don’t know what we’re having next.”

---