Page 20 of Torched Spades
Alice snorts. “Son, shooting a plane out of the sky doesn’t mean it’s going to land in one piece. Hell, wreckage can scatter for miles and not resurface for years, if at all.”
“So you’re saying those two Irish fucks were leftover Rogue?”
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “Rogue… Opportunistic outlaws… Who knows? All I can tell you is the bastards have been stealing shipments out of these warehouses for years. Hell, I spent most of my time doctoring the books and moving money around.” That tough-as-nails image slips again. “I’ve seen what they do to foremen who don’t deliver. I watched one wash up myself just a few years ago.”
“What was tonight about?” I ask.
Shaking her head, she sighs, the lines around her mouth deepening. “They had a shipment coming in from Colombia that never made it. Not my fault, but you know how the trickle-down effect works. Those Irish fucks needed someone to blame.” She swallows hard. “An example made…” Her voice trails off, but we both know what she means.
If I hadn’t been here, she would’ve been the next foreman to wash up.
She lifts her chin, the slip of vulnerability quickly swallowed by the tough-as-nails woman I’ve come to respect. “Look, Malone. I know you’re no angel. That’s why you did what you did. No family man would have the balls to walk into something like that. So give me an hour or two and all this”—she gestures at the bloodstains again, then at the shell casings littering the floor—“never happened.”
“I thought you said you were calling my probation officer?”
“I am,” she confirms with a nod. “To tell him I’m giving you a raise for protecting the Port from thieves.”No, absolutely fucking not.Just as I open my mouth in protest, she adds, “Don’t worry. I’ll leave out the part where you shot the little bastard.”
Fuck.Not any better.
“Really, there’s no need to—”
“Keep arguing, and I’ll post about your ‘heroics’ on every social media page I have. Now get on out of here,” she says, shooing me with a flick of her wrist. “I’ll get my cleaning supplies and take care of all this before the first shift arrives in”—she checks her watch—“less than three hours. It’s probably best if you aren’t around.” Turning, she barrels toward her office, the obnoxious squeak of her shoes growing faint.
When I’m positive she’s gone, I shove a hand through my hair, wincing at the sharp, blistering pain shooting down my arm.Fucking Mac.Apparently, the son of a bitch clipped my shoulder.
Unpleasant, but I’ve had worse.
Besides, I’m more irritated than injured. A flesh wound is an inconvenient waste of time—something I have little to spare. So, locking everything away, I shift from a man into a one-tasked machine.
It takes ten minutes to collect all the shell casings, fifteen to locate and extract the four missing bullets, twenty to dig Mac’s gun out of the pallet, and seven to collect all required supplies. Fifty-two minutes after Alice waddled out, I glance down at the bloodstains, trusting her to keep her word as I exit the warehouse.
Once outside, I walk to the furthest point of the docks, scrub every print off both guns, then chuck them and an airless Ziploc filled with rocks bullets, and shell casings deep in the Narragansett Bay. As I watch everything disappear, familiar words fill my head again.
Play hard; pay harder.
After making a deal with the Devil, I thought I’d paid hard enough. But the debts keep piling up faster than I can open a vein, and that’s without the added cost of diving head-first into other people’s bullshit. I may not like Owen’s rules and regulations, but he put them in place for a reason, and tonight was exactly why.
“Jesus Christ…” Turning, I make my way back toward the main terminal.
I should’ve minded my business and jerked off as planned. Instead, I shined a goddamn spotlight above my head. The last thing I need is what appears to be a spin-off version of the Rogue on my ass, especially since I’m already treading police-infested waters with Becca.
With every step, I curse myself for getting involved, then I curse Owen for being so fucking stupid as to not see this coming. But mostly, I curse the two motherfuckers who can now hand my name over to whoever the fuck is playing Rogue-master.
I leave the docks behind, Dice’s smug words filtering through my head.
“And if you think the fucking police will save you from bullets and blades, think again.”
My brisk pace gradually slows until my feet still, and I’m standing motionless in the Port of Providence parking lot. “Son of a bitch…”
Now I know what bothered me so much after reading that article about Becca’s mother… What caused the itch in the back of my mind I couldn’t reach.
The multiple points of entry with minimal destruction…
The gunshot wound to the head and multiple stab wounds to the chest…
Among the many stories my father told me about the Rogue, there was one thing that always stood out. Excessive brutality was their signature calling card.
Dual death.
