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by Ella Frank
The place was a stark reminder of where he had started out. That little shack Victor would lock him inside down on the bayou was not much better than these makeshift tents in the abandoned shipping yards.
Henri scanned the length of the alley, and his eyes skidded to a stop on two men who were dressed a cut above everyone else, stepping out from one of the gatherings further up.
They were in baggy jeans and hoodies, and the bling around their necks told Henri he’d found the men he was looking for. The ones who kept these three blocks well supplied and one hundred percent dependent on them for their next hit.
Henri pulled off to the side, put his car in park, and took a quick look in the rearview mirror. A couple of the locals had moved out into the street to see who the newcomer was. As Henri pushed opened the door, his nose was assaulted with the foul stench of urine, alcohol, and what he could only assume was the final result of enjoying too much of Ricky G’s finest.
Henri shut the door and made it a point to send a death glare to those behind him, and though most of them looked stoned out of their mind, they all seemed to understand the universal expression: You come any closer to my car, I’ll fucking end you. They all stopped where they were and waited to see what was going to happen next.
Henri rounded back to look at the two he’d come for, and wasn’t shocked in the slightest to find he now had their undivided attention.
Rich car. Townie. Fresh meat. These two weren’t stupid—well, actually, if they worked for rAz, they were total fucking morons, but they knew a potential new buyer when they saw one. The key was not to spook ’em. Henri knew Ricky’s kind: jumpy, paranoid little fuckers. He had to play this just right. Henri saw the taller one straighten up and puff out his chest, a show of dominance and bravado.
Little punk is gonna have to do better than that if he wants to intimidate me, Henri thought, and as he got closer, he saw the same guy slip a hand inside the pocket of his hoodie to no doubt palm the butt of whatever personal security system he was packing in there.
Henri sized each of the men up. The taller one, the one who seemed to be taking the lead, looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had a red cap on with the black hoodie pulled up over it, and as Henri got closer, he noted the guy had a wicked scar slashing through his left eyebrow and a burning cross tattooed up one side of his neck. He was chewing gum and eyeing Henri like he was a piece of shit on the bottom of his shoe.
Henri flicked his eyes to the guy standing to his right and automatically dismissed him as a threat. Young, barely eighteen, in Henri’s estimation, the second guy was sporting bleached blond hair cut to his scalp and blue eyes that looked slightly frantic. He appeared a little green around the gills, and possibly high, due to helping himself to some product, as he looked between Henri and his buddy, who seemed to be getting a little twitchy.
Right, it was time to get things started before assumptions were made and bullets started flying.
“Hey, what’s up, guys?” Henri said, cool as can be as he approached, and slipped a hand down into the front pocket of his jeans to finger the wad of cash he’d put in there earlier. It was imperative these guys didn’t suspect anything from him other than interest in what they were selling, and the best way to do that was to flash some cash around.
“Nothin’ much,” Bleach Boy said as he gave Henri a once-over that ended in a sneer designed to express just how lacking he found him. “You need somethin’? Or you just cross one too many bridges and end up on the wrong side of town?”
Henri took a step closer, flashed a couple of the Benjamins in his pocket, and shrugged. This reaction was the exact one he’d been after. “I don’t know. Did I?”
Bleach Boy looked to Red Cap, whom Henri suspected was actually Ricky. He gave a clipped nod and then indicated that Henri follow them up one of the side streets, and Henri didn’t hesitate. But, not willing to let his car out of sight for even a second, he made sure to position himself so the Aston Martin was in his line of sight—then Mr. G finally spoke up.
“How you know I’m selling?”
Henri aimed his eyes at the gold chain hanging around Ricky’s neck, then let his gaze wander down over the clothes that were probably worth a couple hundred at the least. “I don’t know. Let’s just say it was a lucky guess.”
Ricky crossed his arms over his chest. “Nice try, but I ain’t buyin’ it.”
Henri glanced over his shoulder, playing the part of the wary city buyer before looking back to Ricky. “All right, you’re better dressed than most around here, okay? I took a stab at it. I used to buy from this kid a few blocks over, Scooter? Couldn’t find him today, so I kept on this way.”
Ricky chewed on his gum as he eyed Henri, clearly trying to decide whether to believe the story. Then his boy leaned in and said something, including Ricky’s name, and that was all Henri needed to settle in, double down, and get this shit over and done with.
“Yeah,” Ricky said as he straightened up again, his eyes ping-ponging around the buildings in a way that said he was used to watching his back, and was also paranoid out the ass. “Scooter skipped out a couple days back. Stupid shit fucked us all for this month.”
“No shit,” Henri said as he processed this new piece of information. Clearly, Scooter had packed up and gotten the hell out of Dodge right after their talk the other day at the diner. A move that gave Henri an even better opening. Thank you, Scooter.
“That’s too bad. He sold some good shit.” Henri rubbed a hand over his stubble as though in deep thought. “Actually, you know what? He and I? We were talking the last time we met. I’ve been known to have some connections…if you know what I mean. Maybe I could help you out instead.”
“And why the fuck would you do that? I thought you were here to buy, not sell.”
Henri nodded. “I was—am. But I’m also not stupid. You see my car over there?”
Ricky and his buddy peered around Henri’s shoulder and then looked back to him. “Hard to miss somethin’ like that round here.”
“Yeah. Well, it should also tell you, I’ve got money. I buy from you, sell it around, you like what I get you, maybe this becomes a thing. Maybe you tell your boss; maybe we all walk away a little fucking richer.”
Bleach Boy moved in and whispered something in Ricky’s ear. Ricky frowned and looked back to Henri. “How much you got?”
Henri pulled the wad of money out of his pocket so it was visible. “Five hundred.”
“Okay,” Ricky said, looking a little more interested than he had in the beginning. “So, you give me that and come back in twenty. I’ll have your stuff.”
Nice try, asshole. “You out of your mind? I’m not going to hand over my fucking money so you can walk away with it.”
“That’s the way it works. You pay, I go get the product.”
“Yeah, sure you fucking do. And I never see you, my money, or the drugs again.” Henri took a step forward, and that was when some of that earlier bravado Ricky had been so quick to display eked out as he realized a) just how fucking tall Henri was and b) that the guy standing in front of him suddenly didn’t seem as new to this as he’d first appeared. But not wanting to rattle him, Henri dialed it down a little and reminded himself that rAz was the end goal here. Not Ricky.
“Look,” Henri said. “I didn’t come out here for anything other than something to get me through the next month. But shit, this is too good to be true. What if I told you I could sell an ounce a week to my fancy-ass city neighbors? You think that would help you out? You think your boss would like that?”
Henri could practically see the dollar signs in Ricky’s eyes.
“I mean, what’s your going price here?”
“Four grams for three hundred.”
Henri whistled and shook his head. “I mean, if it’s the good stuff—”
“It’s the fuckin best. That’s all rAz sells.”
Ding. Ding. Ding. There’s that motherfucker’s name. “Well then, make it five for three and yo
u could make up to two K in one week, easy. Doesn’t that sound better than the chump change you make around here?”
Ricky looked to his buddy, whose eyes were almost bugging out his head, the sound of cha-ching no doubt echoing around the empty chambers of his mind.
Henri pulled out a business card that had his burner cell’s number on it and nothing else. He handed it over to Ricky as his buddy unzipped his hoodie and pulled out several baggies.
“That’s how people reach me,” Henri explained. “Tell you what. As a show of good faith, I’ll pay for two weeks’ worth up front, you give me one, and I’ll be back with cash in hand. But I want a meeting with the boss. This rAz who only sells the good stuff.”
Ricky’s nostrils flared at the mention of rAz’s name, and Henri could tell he was feeling a little antsy about having let that slip. I mean, who wouldn’t? The guy wasn’t exactly subtle in how he shut you up if he found out you were talking about him to the wrong people.
“Yeah, okay. I can set that up.”
Glad to fuckin’ hear it, Henri thought as he handed over the money in exchange for the small bags of white stuff.
“One week,” Ricky reiterated as though he was the one calling the shots here. “I’ll call you. We’ll meet.”
“One week.”
Oh, how Detective Dick is going to loooove me tonight. Well, at least hate me a little less than usual.
And with that thought in mind, Henri made his way back to the car, turned the key, and called up the first of the Bailey brothers he had plans with. Because once he got that part over and done with, he planned to go and reward himself for a job well done with the other Bailey for forty-eight hours straight.
Chapter Eight
CONFESSION
Don’t blink—or your life might change before your eyes.
IT WAS CALM out on the streets tonight, something Bailey appreciated as he cruised down Barnes Road and scanned the cars ahead of him. He was nearly five hours into his shift, and as the time inched closer to one in the morning, he had to admit he was eyeing the clock in the hopes that it would speed up.
Ever since he’d gotten off the phone with Henri, he’d been replaying their conversation over and over again to the point that it was becoming ridiculous. It seemed he had a one-track mind lately, one that always led him back to the man with the dark hair, smoldering eyes, and a voice that made Bailey’s entire body feel like a live wire.
Henri had sparked something that Bailey hadn’t felt in years, and when he found himself, yet again, grinning like a moron over their upcoming date—or, dates—Bailey was thankful that at his precinct they rode alone when out on patrol, unless training.
The last thing he needed was to be caught all hearts in his eyes by his workmates. He’d never hear the end of it. But while he was by himself and no one was looking, Bailey saw no harm in enjoying the fact that he was one hundred percent, without a doubt, falling for Henri Boudreaux.
His charm. His arrogance. His sex appeal. Henri attracted Bailey in ways that he’d never expected to find appealing, but that wasn’t all there was to him. Sure, they were the things that you first noticed, because how could you not? But once you got past the smirk, the piercings, the leather, and the attitude, there was so much more beneath the surface.
There was a vulnerability to Henri that called to Bailey. A longing for connection that he understood and wanted to give. A yearning for someone to listen and understand, and love Henri despite whatever was uncovered.
Yes, they were both still new to this relationship. But the fact that Henri wasn’t running, and was sharing more and more of himself every time they saw one another, made Bailey feel like they really stood a chance. That this, what they were building, could possibly stand the test of time.
With his mood at an all-time high, Bailey decided the only thing that could possibly make it better was some Milk Duds to munch on for the rest of the night. Something sweet and sugary to get him through the last few hours, until he could go home, grab a quick few hours of shuteye, and then get ready to see Henri.
Spotting a twenty-four-hour Quick Mart up on the next corner, Bailey pulled his cruiser into the lot and parked up front. There was a silver SUV over at one of the gas pumps and another car parked off to the side—the clerk’s, Bailey was guessing. But other than that, everything was nice and quiet.
Bailey got out and locked up before heading inside, and as he pulled the door open and a bell jangled overhead, he headed directly toward the candy aisle, his mission clear. As he walked by the different M&M’s, chocolate bars, and gummies, he spotted the boxed-up candy and came to a stop in front of it.
Mike & Ike. Razzles. Whoppers and Sour Patch Kids. Bailey frowned and walked back down the aisle. You’ve got to be kidding me.
They had everything but… “Excuse me. Sorry. But am I missing the Milk Duds?”
As the question left his mouth, Bailey turned toward the counter, and when his eyes locked on to where the cash register sat, he froze.
There, standing behind the counter, were two men. One whose eyes were wide with fear as he cowered in the corner with his back pressed up against the rows of cigarettes. The other stood in front of an open register. He had one hand in the drawer and the other wrapped around a black 9mm Smith & Wesson.
Bailey’s mind switched gears in an instant, as a shot of adrenaline hit his bloodstream and all his senses went on high alert.
“Police! Don’t move!” Bailey shouted as he drew and aimed his gun. “Put the gun on the counter and put your hands up in the air!”
The roar of blood ringing in his ears was the only sound Bailey could hear as he tightened his grip and waited for the man to obey, and though it felt like minutes, hours, days between stepping out of that candy aisle and reaching for his weapon, Bailey would eventually learn that it all happened within seconds.
“I said put the gun on the counter and your hands in the air! Now!” But as the man’s fingers adjusted their grip on the stainless steel and he went to level his arm out, Bailey’s instincts took over and shots rang out at an ear-cracking level as shell casings hit the floor by his feet—clank, clank, clank.
After that, there was nothing but silence.
“BAILEY?”
SOMEWHERE IN the far periphery of his mind, Bailey heard his name and recognized the voice that had said it. But as he sat in the front seat of a newly arrived squad car and stared out the windshield at the Quick Mart in front of him, all he could focus on were the policemen now marking off the crime scene with a roll of yellow tape.
The flashing lights that reflected in the grubby front doors from the swarm of cops and CFD ambulances that had descended after he’d keyed up his mic and reported shots fired were doing as requested and offering assistance. But as he sat there, motionless, trying to straighten out exactly what had happened in the last however many minutes, Bailey realized he was likely going into a state of shock.
“Bailey?”
There it was again. His name, in a voice he knew as well as his own. As he turned his head to look across to the driver’s side of the vehicle, he saw Sean opening up the car door and slipping inside. Bailey said nothing as his brother closed the door behind him, just turned and looked back out the windshield at the scene unravelling before him.
It was like a dream. No, scratch that. This was a nightmare.
Somehow, up until this point, Bailey had managed to make it through his career without ever firing a shot, or been shot at by a suspect. He’d been in dangerous situations where guns had been drawn but ultimately things had been resolved and everyone had gone home or to a jail cell in one piece afterward. Tonight, that had all changed.
One minute he’d been shopping for Milk Duds, the next he’d ended someone’s life.
“Craig?”
At the use of his first name and Sean’s hand on his arm, Bailey blinked, swallowed, and then faced his brother. “Yeah, sorry. Hey.”
Sean took in a deep breath. His lips were pulled
into a thin line. “You okay? You’re not hurt? He didn’t—”
“No.” Bailey shook his head. “I wasn’t hit. Just him.”
“Right.” Sean ran a hand through his hair and down to the back of his neck. “Someone from COPA already talk to you?”
Bailey nodded. He felt as though his body were on autopilot. “Just before you got here. Had to surrender my weapon.”
“That’s standard procedure. Nothing to be worried about. From what I heard, this all seems pretty straightforward.”
As straightforward as shooting someone three times in the chest and ending their life can be, Bailey thought, as he blinked at his brother and remained mute. Bailey’s brain replayed that moment for the hundredth time, until the jingling of that bell above the glass doors somehow made its way through all the chaos and found him.
Bailey jerked his head around in time to see a gurney being rolled out by the paramedics, and his stomach twisted and knotted around itself as it threatened to expel the dinner he’d eaten earlier.
“Hey? Bay?” Sean said as he grabbed Bailey’s arm and shook it. But there was no diverting Bailey. He kept his eyes locked on that gurney, on the body covered under that sheet, and though everyone who had talked to him since arriving had assured him he’d done everything by the book, there was absolutely nothing simple or straightforward to seeing a lifeless body and knowing that you were the one to have made it that way.
As the CFD pulled away, Sean shook Bailey again. Bailey finally turned, and the look of concern in his brother’s eyes was something he hadn’t seen in years.
“Look, I know you’re trying to process a lot right now, Bay. But you listen to me. You walked in on a robbery in progress. There was a hostage. The suspect had a gun, you told him to put it down, he didn’t. When he engaged, you fired.”
Bailey licked his lips, which suddenly seemed dry.
Sean reached for the back of Bailey’s neck and squeezed. “You did nothing wrong tonight.”