Page 88 of Captive Audience
“What?” she asked eagerly.
I smirked. “A parting kiss for luck?”
Her face went deadpan. “You have rocks inside your skull; you know that? Literal gravel and nothing else.”
I laughed and headed down the hallway. Just as I reached the kitchen, Finn walked out of the elevator.
“Get comfortable, Finn. Can’t say how long I’ll be.”
“It’s no problem, Boss.”
The elevator carried me to the basement, where Aidan waited for me by the Escalade.
“I haven’t called in backup,” he said. “Thought we’d keep it quiet until we know what we’re facing.”
We tossed our bags into the back seat and slipped into the vehicle. “Good call.”
Aidan buckled his seat belt. “How are things with you and Red?”
“Grand.” I started the car. “She only threatens to murder me once a day instead of five.”
“Guess the honeymoon’s over. If she stops wanting to kill you altogether, you might need couples therapy.”
I gave him an unamused look and drove for the exit.
On the way to the dock, Aidanfilled me in on the tip-off. One of his informants had overheard a thug bragging about big pay for an easy job guarding shipping containers at the port. He’d gone on to say how there were strange noises coming from inside. Human noises like crying, begging, and knocking.
After stashing the Escalade on the outskirts of the docks, we snuck through a hole in the chain-link fence, the metal edges biting at our clothes. Aidan carried a backpack with supplies—bolt cutters, zip ties, duct tape, flashlights. The place reeked of brine, diesel, and something rotting nearby. Each breath sent a plume of mist into the cool night air.
The marine terminal loomed ahead, vast and still at this hour. Most of the port activity had wound down for the night, but the occasional hum of machinery or distant clang of steel reminded us we weren’t alone. Floodlights from the far side of the lot cast a dull glow over rows of shipping containers stacked like building blocks.
We weaved between rows, boots silent and pistols drawn.
At the next junction, I slowed and threw my arm out to stop Aidan. We used a container for cover and peered around the edge.
Two men stood near a cluster of containers up ahead. One was tall and wiry, wearing a red bandana and puffing on a cigarette as he patrolled. The other was bulkier, with a shaved head and gold chains glinting in the moonlight. Both carried automatic rifles slung over their shoulders.
“Albanians, cartel, and now street gangs?” I whispered. “Is there anyone not involved with this shite?”
Aidan smirked. “Just us, cuz. Last of the saints.”
If we were the righteous ones in this city, Philly needed to take a good hard look at itself.
We spread out. I moved left, Aidan right, each of us hugging the shadows. The smoker paused to flick ash to the ground. I edged closer, securing my pistol in the waistband of my jeans to take out my knife.
A quick glance at Aidan, and I gave the signal.
We struck as one. I lunged for the smoker and slid my blade clean across his throat. Hot blood spilled over my knuckles. He made a wet gurgling noise and crumpled at my feet. I caught him before he hit the ground, easing him down as silent as a ghost.
Aidan had Gold Chains pinned, a knife pressed to his jugular. “Move and I’ll open you like a fuckin’ tin of beans.”
We secured him with zip ties and a strip of tape across his mouth. Then we moved to check the containers. The first held crates of weapons stacked behind barrels labeled with chemical codes. The next two were filled with electronics—flat-screens, tablets, bundles of stolen smartphones.
The moment we opened the door of the fourth container, the smell hit me like a fist.
Sweat, urine, filth.
Jesus Christ.
