Page 26 of Huck Frasier
“Doesn’t matter. I have what you want.”
Wrong answer.
I turned slightly—like I was reaching for my phone—and caught movement in the corner of my eye.
A second figure. Across the street. Standing too still. Watching.
I backed up again, this time deliberately.
“Listen,” I said. “If Reina’s not here, this meet’s over. I don’t walk into unknowns without confirmation.”
The woman’s smile was thin and humorless. “Too late for that.”
She reached behind her.
I moved.
My body dropped low, fast. Years of training with Lark and her stoem friends kicked in like instinct. I rolled behind a concrete barrier just as something metal flashed in her hand.
Gun. Not drawn. But close.
I popped up, blade in hand. “You don’t want to do this.”
The second figure was moving now—across the street, toward me. Another guy, built like a linebacker, probably backup.
I ducked around the corner and ran.
Not far. Just enough to get out of line of sight. I vaulted a rusted fence and landed hard in an alley littered with beer bottles and burned mattresses.
I crouched, heartbeat thudding in my ears.
They hadn’t followed. Not yet.
They didn’t want to shoot me.
They wanted to take me.
And that was worse.
I pulled out my burner phone with shaking fingers and dialed the only number I could trust not to question me.
Lark.
“Hey,” she answered, like I hadn’t just bolted from the world. “Please tell me this is a check-in and not an ‘I need you to hide a body’ call.”
“Close,” I whispered. “The contact was fake. I’m being followed. They are only feet from grabbing me.”
“Shit. Where are you?”
“South side. Near old Route 79. I’ll text you the address. Don’t call Frasier.”
“What? Are you kidding me? He’s—”
“Lark. Please.”
She went quiet.
Then: “Fine. But if you die, I’m telling him anyway.”
