Page 63 of Under Cover
Once the door closed, Crosby stood and triple-bolted it, then used the kitchen chair under the doorknob to shore it up before going back to bed.
At nine his stomach woke him up, and he figured that was as good as it got. He was ready to start his day as Rick Young. Bad guy.
CROSBY SPENTpart of the next day getting shit for the flop—an extra blanket, his own fucking socks, underwear, sweats, and T-shirts, as well as toiletries and, please God, a couple of books to kill the time when he wasn’t trying to die—and familiarizing himself with his surroundings. He knew where the bodega was, knew where the food trucks camped out, knew where the dealers lurked and where the school was and on which corners the cops hung out. By the end of the day, he retired to his flop, legs aching pleasantly from walking all day, secure in the knowledge that he knew which hiding places to run to and which ones were flat-out traps, and that he could find a bus stop and a train stop on a dime.
And that he knew how to avoid the cops, because God knew which side they’d be on.
Garcia had been texting him throughout the day, keeping him updated on the investigation. And on his day.
God, Chadwick’s coffee. Lifegiving. After stepping up like a badass at the precinct, it’s almost criminal that we depend on him for coffee too.
He’d sent the video of the precinct, and Crosby had watched it in the bathroom at McDonald’s while he was getting breakfast, his blood running cold. Oh God, it had been such a trap. How could he not have known he was sending Garcia into a meat grinder?
I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have had you do that.He shuddered, thinking of what could have happened.I’m such a fucking meatloaf.
Bullshit. You had me call Harding. I wouldn’t have otherwise—saved me and Toby like a boss.
Crosby swallowed and tried to pull his shit together. He knew better than to let this anxious, awful feeling overwhelm him. What—he finally had something good in his life, something his, and he had to lose his mind about keeping it?
He’d fucking keep it all right.
With a deep breath, he remembered all the good things that came from working with Garcia.
Tell me about the dead assholes. One of them was McEnany’s nephew—that might be a good angle.
Ooh—see, we didn’t know that. All we got was five guys, ages 21-35. Hard living—bad livers, bad skin, bad teeth—one guy had nth stage syphilis.
Nice.
Elsa got that one in hand-to-hand—I think she’s still in the shower.
Poor kid.Crosby smiled. He could hear Gail bitching now.How’s Toby?
Shook. Not gonna lie. You saw the video—he got beat pretty bad, but he’s mostly worried about you. How’re you?
And he wanted to spill everything. He’d never asked for undercover gigs, had known he’d suck at most of ’em. Couldn’t hide a damned thing with his face. This was a tightrope, and he was wearing his God-given cement shoes.
Shook. Not gonna lie. But I need to tell you—Jimmy Creedy is the guy who runs this division of the Sons and has headquarters in a flop three floors down from mine. McEnany claimed Creedy sent those guys to die. Don’t think I was supposed to hear that—I bailed on the convo. I’ll try to get bugs.He missed the toys from the SCTF; not that they’d ever relied on more than tactical gear, but still. A bug would have come in handy as he’d been watching McEnany roll the place.
What do we know about Creedy?
Works warehouse jobs—seems to lead a crew—pissed ’cause he tried to be a cop. Has been wiping his feet on his son Junior a couple of times a week. Junior stayed in my flop last night on the couch. Kid is freaked the fuck out.
Aw, Crosby—you got a puppy!
Crosby let out a sad chuckle for the slang. It’s what cops called someone who became emotionally dependent on an authority figure, particularly one who seemed sympathetic. The thing, they all reminded each other, was that puppies were needy, and if they didn’t understand that their “owner” had other priorities, they could get aggressive and dangerous—just like a real puppy. Crosby’s puppy had a lot of different ways he could go wrong.
Yeah—looks like a Chihuahua, could be a cross between a rattlesnake and a pit bull. Sleeping with one eye open.
Good boy. Any other nuggets of info we can run down over here? You’ve got Elsa and Swan pounding away like Mozart here.
Yeah. Meth. It’s what’s for dinner. McEnany knocked over a coffee table full of lines, and not one person whined about their hit. Someone is flooding the place with drugs—I need to find out if our guys are slinging or just using or some combo of the two. Where is that shit coming from?
Ugh. Drugs are the fuckin’ devil, man. Watch your coffee, watch your water bottle, watch your food.
Because it would besoeasy to get dosed when not looking. One of the primary rules of undercover was flat out don’t do it. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, users would accept “I only deal, I don’t use,” as truth. A lot of criminals didn’t. And if you got that one guy who didn’t buy it, you turned around and walked away, even if it meant bailing from the operation. Using on the job could lose you the bust—and the job. And your life. But Crosby had no way of getting out here. Even if he went hauling back to the SCTF, there were enough Sons of the Blood out there to throw his entire team into WITSEC just to keep them safe.
No, he had to bring down McEnany, bring down the big guys he was trying to impress, and bring down as many little soldier-criminal-cops as he could point a finger at, or his team might as well be shot out of a cannon and used for confetti.
