Chapter 5
Gideon stood in the center of a cavernous, poorly lit garage on the industrial edge of the shipping district. The air was thick with the smell of motor oil and metallic dust. Before him sat a black luxury SUV — or rather, what was left of it. The vehicle had been stripped down to its chassis, its doors removed, its interior gutted.
“They hid it in the door panels,” Wyatt said, shining a heavy Maglite into the exposed cavity of the rear passenger door.
Gideon stepped closer. Tucked neatly between the steel framework and the window motor were fifty vacuum-sealed bricks of cash. The remnants of a cartel transaction that had gone sideways three days ago, leaving two of Gideon’s drivers hospitalized and a shipment missing. They had found the truck. Now they had found the money.
“Count it. Wash it. Move it through the offshore accounts by Tuesday,” Gideon ordered, his voice echoing flatly in the concrete space.
“Already on it, boss.” Wyatt clicked the flashlight off and wiped his grease-stained hands on a rag. He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Wyatt only fidgeted when he had bad news that didn’t pertain to business. Gideon noticed immediately. He pulled a silver cigarette case from his jacket, extracting a single cigarette.
“Spit it out, Wyatt.”
“I ran the background on the name you gave me last night,” Wyatt said carefully. “Ben. The guy the waitress was crying over.”
Gideon paused, the silver lighter half raised to his face. He hadn’t asked Wyatt to run the name. He had explicitly told him to drop it. The money was gone. The transaction was a closed loop. An aberration in an otherwise ruthlessly disciplined life.
“I thought I made myself clear,” Gideon said quietly. He struck the lighter. The flame illuminated the harsh, sharp angles of his jaw.
“You did,” Wyatt countered, holding his ground. “But I don’t like blind spots. You dropping ten grand on a random civilian raises flags. I had to make sure she wasn’t a setup. So I dug into her ex.”
Gideon took a long drag, the cherry of the cigarette burning bright red in the dim garage. He exhaled a thin stream of gray smoke.
“Benjamin Hayes. Twenty-six. Small-time grifter. He didn’t just steal the girl’s money to start a new life, Gideon. He stole it to cover a marker.”
Wyatt stepped closer, lowering his voice. “He took that eight grand and bought into an underground poker ring in the basement of the Cobalt Club.”
Gideon’s eyes narrowed. The Cobalt Club wasn’t neutral territory. It was owned by the Rossi Syndicate. The Rossis were a sprawling, chaotic family of loan sharks and extortionists. Gideon tolerated them because a war would disrupt the docks, but the peace was fragile.
“Did he win?” Gideon asked dryly.
“He lost it in two hours.” Wyatt grimaced. “Then he borrowed another twenty thousand on credit from the table, trying to chase the loss. He lost that too. When the Rossi boys took him in the back room to discuss repayment, he panicked. He told them he had a girlfriend who kept a lock box full of cash under her bed. He gave them her name and address.”
Silence descended on the garage. The rhythmic dripping of a leaky pipe somewhere in the distance sounded like a ticking clock. Gideon didn’t react physically, but the air around him seemed to solidify.
The quiet, strange pity he had felt for the weeping woman in the diner curdled into something cold and violent.
“When was this?”
“Tuesday night. Right before he skipped town. The Rossies have been looking for him ever since.” Wyatt paused. “But since they can’t find Ben, they’ll go collect from the girl.”
Gideon finished, his voice devoid of inflection.
“I put a tail on her this morning just to be safe,” Wyatt said. “She went to a bank, converted your cash into a cashier’s check, dropped it at a nursing home up north. She’s empty-handed.”
Gideon looked at the burning end of his cigarette. He thought about the exhausted slump of her shoulders. The cheap, crooked name tag. The terror in her eyes when she realized who he was. She had taken his money to pay for a nursing home. She was completely defenseless.
And now, thanks to the coward she had been crying over, she was in the crosshairs of men who broke fingers for sport.
“Pull the tail,” Gideon said. He dropped the cigarette onto the concrete floor and crushed it beneath the heel of his Italian leather shoe.
Wyatt looked relieved. “Good call, boss. It’s sad, but it’s not our problem. Getting tangled up with the Rossies over a waitress isn’t worth the headache.”
“I didn’t say drop it,” Gideon corrected, looking up at Wyatt. His dark eyes were utterly void of warmth. “I said pull the tail. I’ll handle it myself.”
Wyatt stared at him, stunned. “Gideon, you can’t be serious. If you touch Rossi’s collectors, it’s an act of war. Over what? A girl you met twelve hours ago?”
“Over a debt that I settled,” Gideon said, buttoning his tailored coat. His voice was terrifying in its absolute calm. “I paid the girl’s deficit. Her slate is clean. I don’t let bottom feeders collect on accounts I’ve already closed.”
He turned and walked toward the exit, his footsteps echoing sharply against the concrete.
May you like
“Where is she now?” Gideon demanded over his shoulder.
Wyatt sighed, realizing there was no stopping the avalanche once it started. He checked his phone. “Shift starts at four. She’s walking from the bus stop to the diner right now.”
