Page 24 of Engaging his Enemy
“But you’re here now.” He clapped Moto on the back. “That’s what matters. The only thing you can control is what happens next.”
Moto nodded. “Thank you.”
“You’ve got it. What about this kid’s mother? She married to somebody else?”
“No.”
“Do you want her to be, or do you want her for yourself?”
He thought of the kiss he’d shared with Davina in the kitchen not two hours before and his decision in the car on the way here. “No. Getting to know my son is what’s important right now.”
“Don’t forget, you’ve got all that time you’re going to be waiting for that kid to come around. You may as well do something worthwhile.” Razorback turned and walked back inside, leaving Moto alone on the thin strip of balcony.
13
The Port of Houston was bigger than the suburb Ben grew up in, a city within a city, the dark night and blanket of foggy humidity giving it an eerie quality that put him on edge. He’d talked his way through the gate easily enough, explaining he was the Realtor on a parcel that was being sold and needed a last-minute walk-through.
He did need to do a walk-through, but he also wanted to see the place for himself as soon as possible. If DeRegina planned to use the old warehouse to import drugs, this place would be ground zero. It was a risky endeavor at a port like this, given the level of security and government inspection, but there were always officials who could be bought.
He took a drag of his cigarette as he moved past a tanker longer than a football field, the blackness of its steel sidewall hovering over his field of vision like the face of a threatening cliff. The warehouse was a full quarter mile from where he’d parked and he walked briskly, aware of the overwhelming silence and lack of activity in this area. A massive container crane stood like a sleeping giant, waiting to spring to life, and his mind whirled through his own culpability in the events of the last few days.
What damage had he done, exactly, to further the spread of drugs into his community? Drugs that boys like Wyatt could take. Drugs that could ruin more lives like they’d nearly ruined his. He took one last drag of his cigarette and pitched it away. He didn’t smoke anymore, yet here he was. He didn’t do a lot of things anymore, but he still remembered.
He remembered how good it felt to get high, to let the real world slip away into some kind of haze that covered all pain and disappointment, quelling his rage. Getting high was the ultimate in irony. There were only good feelings with drugs, but the haze could choke out any semblance of anything real and good, killing the things that mattered most in life.
He thought of Laney. He’d been seeing her for a while after his parents died, though that time in his life was mostly a blur of pot and cocaine. He was convinced they’d been using each other for sex—him to get away from the darkness in his life, if only for an hour or two, her to get away from her drunk-ass father.
Now she was back in his life, her name jumping out at him from his internet search of local lawyers. He didn’t even know she’d moved back to town. She’d gone away to law school, never to be heard from again, yet she was back…a divorced mother determined to save an old friend from prison.
He’d caught her looking at him while they were up on that hill where the federal agent died, the same look she used to give him when she showed up at his door at three in the morning, needing his body just as intensely as he’d needed hers. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he showed up on her doorstep now.
He forced the idea from his head, at least for now. He thought of the look on Davina’s face when she thought he was fucking his lawyer. Hah. That wouldn’t solve his problems. He’d made a mess of his life by looking for the easy way out, a shortcut to success everyone else had missed. If he wanted to make it right, it was time to do things the hard way, to fight the battles he’d been avoiding all these years and finally do right by the people he loved. And if Laney was there when this was all over, then maybe he would do something about it.
The sound of a truck rumbled behind him, and he turned to see lights approaching. He moved behind the base of the crane, easily hiding behind its structure as the vehicle passed. It stopped in front of the warehouse. Ben frowned. The property had been abandoned for over a year. No one should be here.
He considered turning back but hesitated. He moved away from the ship and the lighted path he’d been on, approaching the warehouse from the darkness, heart hammering in his chest. Perhaps the truck was in the wrong location. A simple case of mistaken address. But what if this was his chance to catch DeRegina in a vulnerable position? What if he could really do something good by investigating further?
In the distance, he could see men open the back of the truck and unload fifty-gallon drums. He crouched beside a shipping container, wishing he had binoculars to see better. His brother would have been better prepared for this kind of thing, and he instantly hated himself for his incessant failures.
“Stop right there,” a deep voice said from behind him. “Put your hands up.” Ben didn’t move, terror flooding his senses. “Now!” barked the voice, and Ben lifted his hands, scurrying to a stand and moving to face the man. “Don’t turn around!” came the command. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m Ben Sato, a Realtor. My client’s buying this property.”
“Give me some ID. Slowly. No sudden movements.”
He reached into his back pocket. “Just getting my wallet.” He held it out behind him, and the man snatched it away.
A moment went by, time seemingly suspended. Should he run? Turn and fight for his freedom? There were easily a half dozen men at the truck in front of him, any fight sure to be quickly lost, and he didn’t have a firearm. He swallowed hard. He was at the other man’s mercy.
An electronic blip sounded behind him, and the man spoke. “Ben Sato. Says he’s the Realtor.”
A burst of static, then a voice burst through. “Bring him to me.”
Ben longed to flee, panic warring with indecision. A handcuff went around his wrist and was cinched tight before locking with its mate. “No funny stuff,” said the man, who began dragging him toward the warehouse and into the light.
This was it. These were the people he’d chosen to do business with, and if he died here tonight, it was a fate he had earned. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears falling onto his cheeks, a sensation he hadn’t felt since the night his parents died. “Please. I didn’t do anything,” he begged. “I didn’t see anything.”
The man didn’t answer but only dragged him into the warehouse, the men surrounding the truck suddenly scattering like cockroaches in the light. There would be no witnesses, no one to say what had happened to him. He would simply disappear, and it occurred to him the world might be a better place with him gone.
