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Authors: Megan Crewe
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too good at stifling any emotions I’d have to hide. The fire I’d used to have was in there somewhere.
I wanted it back.
I returned to the station with Nathan’s assignment accomplished and my own wires in better order. Enough tiptoeing around. It was time to push Nate harder.
“I think you’ll approve,” I said to him when we arrived at the place I’d picked out: what had once been a clothing shop just a few blocks from the station. The building was an older construction, boards and nails instead of bars and concrete, but sturdy. The idea that his stash wouldn’t be totally inaccessible had given me a particle of reassurance.
I pointed to the front windows. “Those shutters are steel, so no one’s going to break in that way. And both the front door and the delivery entrance at the back are reinforced. You can drop things off around back without anyone on the street noticing, so chances are good no one’s even going to realize there’s any point in trying to break in.” I motioned to the FOR RENT sign. “The business must have gone under before the flu—their inventory’s cleared out, so there’s plenty of room.”
“It’s close to the freeway too,” Nathan murmured to himself as we headed down the back alley to the delivery entrance. Was he planning on taking off somewhere with his stash? He’d suggested that control of this city was just the start—it could be he was thinking he could swallow up more and more of Michael’s territory until he had the means to take on what remained of Michael’s operation directly.
How did I steer him away from that? What was his point of leverage? To really move a person, you had to know where they were coming from.
“So what did you do, before all this?” I asked, aiming for a conversational tone, as Nathan hauled open the garage-like door. I considered his suit: today, sleek navy. “Some kind of business exec thing?”
Nathan chuckled. “Something like that.”
“You must miss it.”
He scanned the inner space of the inventory area, and then shot me a narrow look. “Is this supposed to be a heart-to-heart? Save that for your boyfriend.” He stepped out, glanced up and down the alley, and grinned. “I don’t miss anything.”
Because it was easier to grab power now that it all relied on who had the biggest knife and the fastest draw?
Nathan yanked down the door and prodded the edges. I was considering what angle to take that wouldn’t end in a conversation with his switchblade when he nodded, said, “It’ll do,” and stalked back to his convertible without so much as a backward glance. No praise, no thank you. No further opening. He was pulling away from the curb as I followed him out of the alley.
Well, that hadn’t gotten me very far. At least it was only five minutes to the station. I preferred the walk to his company.
I’d made it two blocks, stewing over possible overtures, when a different car pulled up alongside me: a dark blue BMW sedan. I paused, keeping a careful distance from both the car and the buildings beside me, in case this was some kind of ambush. I’d been carrying the pistol in my jacket— Just in case , like I’d said to Zack—and a pocket knife in my jeans. In a hand-to-hand struggle I’d probably have better luck with the knife. I dropped my hand to rest over the pocket.
The car’s front passenger window rolled down and a tall, ropey-muscled guy with a mane of tangled black hair leaned his arm out. I relaxed slightly. I’d seen him in the station, arguing with Janelle—Trang, she’d called him. He was someone higher up in that local gang she’d told us about. The Strikers, they went by, for whatever reason.
“I hear you can speak for Michael,” Trang said in a reedy voice that sounded odd coming from such a hulking figure. The guy in the driver’s seat peered past him at me.
“To some extent,” I said.
He motioned to the driver, who cut the gas. Trang stepped out and propped himself against the
I wanted it back.
I returned to the station with Nathan’s assignment accomplished and my own wires in better order. Enough tiptoeing around. It was time to push Nate harder.
“I think you’ll approve,” I said to him when we arrived at the place I’d picked out: what had once been a clothing shop just a few blocks from the station. The building was an older construction, boards and nails instead of bars and concrete, but sturdy. The idea that his stash wouldn’t be totally inaccessible had given me a particle of reassurance.
I pointed to the front windows. “Those shutters are steel, so no one’s going to break in that way. And both the front door and the delivery entrance at the back are reinforced. You can drop things off around back without anyone on the street noticing, so chances are good no one’s even going to realize there’s any point in trying to break in.” I motioned to the FOR RENT sign. “The business must have gone under before the flu—their inventory’s cleared out, so there’s plenty of room.”
“It’s close to the freeway too,” Nathan murmured to himself as we headed down the back alley to the delivery entrance. Was he planning on taking off somewhere with his stash? He’d suggested that control of this city was just the start—it could be he was thinking he could swallow up more and more of Michael’s territory until he had the means to take on what remained of Michael’s operation directly.
How did I steer him away from that? What was his point of leverage? To really move a person, you had to know where they were coming from.
“So what did you do, before all this?” I asked, aiming for a conversational tone, as Nathan hauled open the garage-like door. I considered his suit: today, sleek navy. “Some kind of business exec thing?”
Nathan chuckled. “Something like that.”
“You must miss it.”
He scanned the inner space of the inventory area, and then shot me a narrow look. “Is this supposed to be a heart-to-heart? Save that for your boyfriend.” He stepped out, glanced up and down the alley, and grinned. “I don’t miss anything.”
Because it was easier to grab power now that it all relied on who had the biggest knife and the fastest draw?
Nathan yanked down the door and prodded the edges. I was considering what angle to take that wouldn’t end in a conversation with his switchblade when he nodded, said, “It’ll do,” and stalked back to his convertible without so much as a backward glance. No praise, no thank you. No further opening. He was pulling away from the curb as I followed him out of the alley.
Well, that hadn’t gotten me very far. At least it was only five minutes to the station. I preferred the walk to his company.
I’d made it two blocks, stewing over possible overtures, when a different car pulled up alongside me: a dark blue BMW sedan. I paused, keeping a careful distance from both the car and the buildings beside me, in case this was some kind of ambush. I’d been carrying the pistol in my jacket— Just in case , like I’d said to Zack—and a pocket knife in my jeans. In a hand-to-hand struggle I’d probably have better luck with the knife. I dropped my hand to rest over the pocket.
The car’s front passenger window rolled down and a tall, ropey-muscled guy with a mane of tangled black hair leaned his arm out. I relaxed slightly. I’d seen him in the station, arguing with Janelle—Trang, she’d called him. He was someone higher up in that local gang she’d told us about. The Strikers, they went by, for whatever reason.
“I hear you can speak for Michael,” Trang said in a reedy voice that sounded odd coming from such a hulking figure. The guy in the driver’s seat peered past him at me.
“To some extent,” I said.
He motioned to the driver, who cut the gas. Trang stepped out and propped himself against the
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