Page 35 of Kade

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Kade tried hard not to show any reaction when Conner drove them down a back alley that looked like something out of a horror movie. He was ninety-nine percent positive they were about to get murdered and chopped up, the pieces strewn throughout the dumpsters that littered the city. Where in fuck’s sake were they going?

“You sure you know where you’re going?” Kade gripped the oh-shit handle, as he called it, when they narrowly missed hitting two guys huddled together against the wall of a crumbling, abandoned building. He was pretty sure they were sharing needles, but he didn’t look too long.

“Would I be going this way if I didn’t?”

“How the hell do I know?” Kade tensed when they started to slow down. Crack house. That was his first impression of the building with two very built black guys standing at the entrance. Several people of various ethnicities roamed around the front of the building looking very much like strung-out junkies.

“Look, I did some checking.Los Muertoshas a major hold in this city now. There are very few who don’t owe allegiance to them. This guy is one of the last holdouts.”

“What makes you so sure they won’t hear the name Kincaid and turn us over to ensure they remain the last holdout?” Kade was nervous. He admitted it freely. Walking into gang territory without police backup was not cool. It reminded him of how he’d felt every single day he’d been undercover. The fear of being discovered as a police officer had been as real as the fear of being turned over toLos Muertosnow.

“They probably would if they knew our names were Kincaid.” Conner got out of the vehicle and left Kade to follow him.

Dammit. Kade got out. They didn’t bother locking it. If the people here wanted to steal it or strip it, locking it wouldn’t deter them.

“I’m here to see Andrew about a purchase.” Conner stared hard at the man in front of him.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“The Executioner. Who the fuck are you?”

The big man shrank back from Conner. What the fuck? And why did he call himself the Executioner?

“Go on in.” He moved aside and allowed the brothers entry.

Inside, it was like walking into a memory. He’d been in a few manufacturing houses down in Miami. They seemed to be the same everywhere. Rows of tables were set up with people cutting powder and filling small distribution baggies. Another long row of tables held stacks of money being counted and sorted. On the opposite end, armed men lounged, laughing and joking, their whores being quiet or entertaining whichever man whose lap they sat on.

Conner bypassed all this and headed for the staircase at the back. Kade followed him, trying not to stare too much. It would make them nervous, and they’d start asking questions.

They hurried down the darkened hallway at the top and came to a stop at the door at the end, guarded by two more men. Conner told them the same as the first two, claiming to be the Executioner. He and Conner were going to have a serious talk about that name and why it terrified hardened drug dealers.

Inside, Kade was shocked to see a very nice office. No crumbling walls, but new plaster. It was clean, efficient, and tidy. The black man who sat behind the desk, looking at his laptop screen, wasn’t what he thought the leader of this particular organization would look like. It wasn’t a gang, necessarily, but a drug distribution ring that probably did business with most of the gangs in the city.

“Andrew.”

Andrew looked up, the diamond stud in his ear winking in the light. His head was shaven clean, and the barest hint of a five o’clock shadow outlined his face. He looked more like a Wall Street trader in his expensive suit than a drug dealer.

“You have me at a disadvantage.” His voice was cultured, deep, and his tone warned any fuckery would be met with hostility.

“I’m the Executioner.”

Something flickered in Andrew’s eyes, but Kade couldn’t place the emotion. It wasn’t anything good.

“And what brings you here, Executioner?”

“None of your people.” Conner sat, but Kade remained standing behind him. “I need weapons that can’t be traced.”

“What kind of weapons?”

“The kind I can’t get off the street. I need heavy artillery, automatic weapons that are clean. They can’t be attached to any other crimes.”

“Why would you need…”

“None of your business. I came here because you were highly recommended by mutual friends. If you can’t provide the service I need, I’ll look elsewhere.”

“I didn’t say that. I was just curious.”

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