Hard As You Can

by Laura Kaye

  “Yeah,” Crystal said. “I never mind.” Her breathing shuddered, and the crying left her wrung out and headachy. She had to pull herself together.

  “Well, I don’t mind either. I just really hate seeing you this way. Nobody should get to do this to you,” she said, keeping her voice as calm as she could as she rubbed wide circles over Crystal’s back. Jenna’s hand slowed. Stilled. “Sara?” she asked in a high-pitched voice.

  Crystal closed her eyes. She’d been so wrapped up in herself, she’d forgotten. For a moment, she’d just let herself be comforted. And now Jenna knew. Now, Jenna had seen.

  Slowly, the cotton of Crystal’s shirt slid farther up her back, just a few inches, as Jenna leaned around her.

  Jenna gasped. “Oh, Sara. Oh, my God. What is this? Oh, my God.”

  Crystal’s tears started again, and she burrowed into Jenna’s lap and wrapped her arms awkwardly around her waist. Jenna leaned down and returned the embrace as best as she could. They cried together for a long time.

  When Crystal’s body simply had no more tears left to give, she slowly rolled onto her back, her head on Jenna’s legs. “I didn’t want you to know,” she said, her voice a raw scrape. “I didn’t want you to . . . think . . . less of me.”

  “Less of you? How could I?” Jenna asked, shaking her head. “My God, I would never have thought this was your fault. Because it’s not. How could it be?”

  “I know,” Crystal said, her throat tight again. “I was just so ashamed.” She covered her mouth with her hand, and Jenna stroked her palm over Crystal’s sweaty forehead.

  “Will you tell me now?”

  The thing she’d never wanted to do. Crystal was supposed to have shielded Jenna from all this. Let her live her life free from the knowledge of this reality. It was part of what she’d promised their father, at least that’s what she’d always told herself. Too late now. The failure sat like a ten-pound weight on her heart. Crystal’s head moved down in a nod without her telling it to, but it was the right thing to do. “I’ll tell you,” she whispered. “I’ll hate it, but I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  Chapter 16

  The sun had set, and the team had been in position for almost two hours when the first vehicles pulled into Pier 13, a long stretch of concrete slab that ran from the road along a mammoth and abandoned industrial granary to the pier that stretched into the dark waters of Baltimore Harbor beyond. A gray van, two black Suburbans with tinted windows, and a box truck circled into the lot behind the granary.

  “Hold your position everyone. Engage only if hostiles engage first. We are fact-finding only,” came Nick’s voice through Shane’s earpiece. From his sniper roost on an old barge moored to one side of the pier, Shane watched as men climbed out of the trucks and fanned out in a defensive circle. Ten in all. Heavily armed.

  Against their six.

  Near the middle of the group loomed the man Shane had seen kissing Crystal at Confessions. Bruno Ashe. He stood at the right hand of a tall, thin black man in a sharp-looking suit. Shane’s gut said that had to be Jimmy Church. Who else but a self-appointed Messiah, the name he called himself inside his organization, would radiate that kind of self-assurance or warrant the kind of deference the rest of the men paid to him?

  Eyeballing the white box truck, Shane wondered if Church was giving or receiving tonight. Maybe both. And, really, it didn’t matter. Shane just hoped the nature of the delivery and those with whom Church was making the trade would help them figure out what the hell Merritt had been up to and how they could use that intel to regain their good names, their reputations, and their honor.

  Shane scanned a one-eighty circuit from left to right. Though he couldn’t see any of the team, he knew Nick and Marz provided the team’s eyes from the sky from their positions inside broken windows on opposite ends of the granary’s second floor. Beckett hid at ground level behind a trailer that might once have served as some sort of office. Easy crouched in a nook where a lower concrete gangway ran along the far side of the pier, shielded by the shadows of the NS Savannah, the first nuclear-powered passenger ship, apparently, that had long been docked there. And Nick’s PI friend, Miguel, had the water approach covered from his position out in the harbor on his fishing boat. Jeremy had Beckett’s SUV hidden about a quarter mile away, giving them access to both a water and a land evacuation of the site in case they needed the options.

  Nick had been reluctant as hell to bring Jeremy out in the field, and of all people, Shane totally got his wanting to keep his brother safe. But the reality was they were seriously understaffed for the mission they’d created for themselves. And to his credit, Jer was only too happy to help however he could.

  “Note that all eyes are on the water,” Marz said. “Keep alert for a marine landing.”

  “Roger that,” Miguel said.

  Given that the Savannah took up most of the far side of the pier, that probably meant their unknown hostiles would dock on the same side as Shane’s barge, making his position the closest to deal with them should the need arise.

  Damn good thing they’d had the day to prepare for this operation.

  After Marz had nailed down the meeting’s location via the audio surveillance of Confessions, the whole group had gotten a few hours shut-eye, then spent the day learning everything they could about the pier. Miguel, Nick, and Easy had taken the older man’s boat out along the whole stretch of waterfront comprised of several piers. Once they’d seen that the dock appeared no longer in use, they’d dropped Easy off to wire up a few booby traps in case things went south and they required a little explosive assistance to cover their asses.

  Meanwhile, Beckett and Shane had familiarized themselves with the land approach, learning there was only one road in and out of that part of the terminal. Both groups had loaded up on photographs of the geography, allowing Marz to merge those with the aerial images he’d pulled off the Web to compile a whiteboard-sized graphic from which they could strategize and prepare for every possible contingency.

  All of that meant Shane hadn’t had five minutes to try to see Crystal, and the radio silence was eating at his innards. Last thing he wanted was for her to think those scars had chased him off when his reaction was exactly the opposite—he wanted her by his side where he could protect her from ever being hurt again.

  “Look lively, gentlemen,” came Miguel’s voice over the coms. “Two powerboats coming in from the southeast and heading your direction.” Shane looked to his right out over the expanse of the barge to the black waters beyond. He scanned the horizon and finally found the green, red, and white navigation lights demarcating the vessels in question.

  “Are you close enough for a head count?” Nick asked.

  “Negative,” Miguel said.

  Soon, the hum of the boats’ motors traveled across the water, the sound getting louder by degrees as they neared. Shane’s muscles tensed in readiness, and every one of his senses sharpened with awareness, the reactions instinctive after years of being in similar situations out in the field. Breathing and heart rate steady, he tamped down the excitement that threatened to bubble up at the anticipation of getting some answers. Everything needed to be by the book to ensure that the team’s presence remained covert, they got the photographic information Marz needed to research identities, and everyone got home safe.

  Two motorboats entered the golden light cast by the lamp at the end of the pier. Cabin cruisers, the kind with galleys and sleeping berths belowdecks, easily thirty-six or forty feet long. Shane took a quick inventory of both boats. “At least three hostiles on each vessel,” he said in a low voice. “Lots of firepower.”

  “Copy,” Nick replied.

  That made it sixteen against six. The nearly three-to-one ratio was way the hell less than ideal, but hopefully everything would go as planned, and it would never come into play.

  The boats passed alongside Shane’s position, and some of Church’s men moved toward the waterside as the new arrivals docked and d
isembarked in an orderly, methodical fashion that said they’d done this before.

  “Make that four per boat,” Shane said as a single man emerged from down below on both boats and held a sentry position on deck. Two other men stayed near the boats, while the rest moved closer to Church.

  The round of greetings between Church and his men and the newcomers, generally friendly in nature, revealed a fair degree of trust. Question was, who the hell were these guys? Was one of these the man named Azziz that Charlie had heard about while kidnapped? And did they have anything to do with Merritt?

  “You getting this, Marz?” Shane asked.

  “Affirmative,” came his voice, tight with concentration.

  For a few minutes, the two obvious leaders—Church and whoever the number one was from the boat—exchanged social small talk about one another’s family and business. From his position on the barge, Shane could hear much of what they were saying. Finally, the newcomer’s leader said, “Have you got what I need?” American English, no accent.

  Church gave a curt nod. “Of course. I can assume the same from you?”

  “As always,” the man said. Tall, Caucasian, dark hair, nothing about him seemed familiar or noteworthy. But the best operatives often perfected coming across as unmemorable.

  Church signaled with his hand, and the box truck’s engine started. The vehicle backed toward the dock’s edge nearest the boats, stopping less than ten feet away. Church’s men congregated on either side as some of the newcomers returned to the decks of the boats.

  “Who’s got a good visual on the back of that truck?” Marz asked. “I’m dark, now.”

  “I have a partial,” Beckett said from his ground-level location behind the trailer.

  “I got it,” Shane said. “I’ll get some pics.” As the only other team member holding an elevated position, Shane had come prepared with a high-powered digital point-and-shoot, just in case. He fished it out of his pocket and eyed the scene through the viewfinder.

  Luggage appeared from the hull of one of the boats—two wheeled suitcases. As he shot a stream of stills, Shane burned for them to open the cases and see if the contents could provide more information.

  Bingo.

  The men laid the cases on the ground and unzipped them. Church crouched down and retrieved one of what appeared to be maybe two dozen plastic-wrapped kilo bricks of product. He slit one open with a knife and tested it. Nodded. The underlings closed the cases again. Shane couldn’t be sure what was in those bricks—meth, cocaine, heroin, all of them could be transported that way. But given that Afghanistan accounted for at least 90 percent of the world’s heroin, a potential connection to their fubar of a situation remained.

  Church rose and stepped to the side, then Bruno knocked twice on the back of the truck and lifted the door. It rolled up with a clatter. Bruno removed four black suitcases from the truck’s bed and set them in front of the boatmen’s subordinates. Shane captured the whole exchange with the camera.

  “Nice,” Nondescript Man said with a smile. “It was a good shipment, then.”

  “Very,” Church said. “You keep delivering such pure product, and I can get top dollar.”

  So then Church’s cases likely held cash. Basic drug deal. Shane focused on close-ups of a few more faces, then lowered the camera.

  “Okay, hand ’em down,” Bruno called, standing at the back of the truck. Six of Church’s men lined up, guns facing outward, and formed a human gauntlet from the end of the vehicle to the edge of the pier.

  What the fuck is this? Shane thought, shooting the scene again.

  Prickles rose on Shane’s scalp, then he went ice-cold to the core. Two men who had apparently been inside the truck’s cargo area took turns passing the bodies of unconscious women into the arms of the remaining Churchmen, who passed them off to the boatmen.

  “Aw, Jesus Christ,” Shane whispered, not fully realizing he’d said it out loud until Nick asked what was going on. Oh, no. Oh, no.

  “They’re pulling bodies out of the back of that truck,” Beckett explained. “Women.” Shane was glad for the explanatory assistance, because if he opened his mouth right now, he was likely to vent the inferno of rage erupting inside him.

  “We gotta do something,” Shane finally managed, as the third woman—a blond—was passed down the line. Shane’s throat went tight. Is this what had happened to Molly? Had this been her fate?

  “Stand down, Shane,” Nick said. “That is an order.”

  A fourth. Short, dark hair. “We can’t just let them . . .”

  “Shane, listen to me,” Nick came again. “We don’t have the manpower. We don’t have the guns. We’re not in the right position to intervene.”

  Shane’s chest squeezed. “Nick—”

  “No. We’ll get them and us killed,” Nick said, the calm gone from his voice. Shane heard the anger and the reason and the fear—and he knew the latter was all about whether Shane would lose his shit and go rogue.

  One by one, the boatmen carried the women belowdecks. Hands shaking, heart jackrabbiting inside his chest, Shane shot every one with the camera. But he felt raw and ragged, like he’d been torn in two, because part of him was dying inside for the inability to stop what he was silently witnessing—an assembly line of human trafficking that deposited nine women total into the bowels of the boats.

  None with red hair. And goddamnit all to hell and back, he loathed himself for caring about that, because Crystal’s safety in this instance held his heart intact but didn’t at all negate the loss that nine fucking families were in the midst of feeling right this very second.

  And Shane was intimately familiar with that feeling. He’d carried it with him for sixteen long years.

  The two men who’d apparently guarded the truck’s human cargo jumped out and secured the door, and one turned toward Shane’s position and stepped into the light.

  Shane did a double take, totally gobsmacked to see a familiar face among the Churchmen. He shot a series of images. “You won’t believe this shit, but I’m looking at Manny Garza right now,” Shane said, forcing normalcy into his voice. Garza had been Army Special Forces, too, and Shane, Nick, and Beckett had crossed paths with him on a couple of ops in Afghanistan at least three years before the ambush. Last Shane had heard, Garza had washed out.

  So what the hell was he doing here?

  “Sonofafuck,” Nick bit out. “Are you sure?”

  Shane watched the guy move. His wavy hair was longer, but his light brown skin color, facial expressions, and body movements were completely recognizable as the soldier he’d known. “Affirmative.”

  And now Shane’s rage brewed for another reason. Afuckingnother of their own was on the dirty side of this situation. First Merritt, now Garza. How far into their own ranks did this shit extend?

  Shane didn’t think he was imagining the tension radiating from the rest of his team. They might’ve been hidden from his sight, but he was well enough in tune with all of them to know he wouldn’t be alone in his reactions to the night’s turn of events.

  “You got a source for your other needs?” Nondescript Man asked. “Because I’ve got a recommendation if you want it.”

  Church shook his head. “Appreciate the offer, but I prefer to keep this business separate from that business. You understand.” This business was clearly the drugs and the women, but what the hell did Church mean by that business? Guns, maybe? That was the remaining cornerstone of the criminal business trifecta.

  “Entirely. Well—” The boatmen’s leader extended his hand, and Church returned the shake. “A pleasure, as always.” The man’s underlings retreated to the boats.

  “Indeed,” Church said with a nod. “Go with God.” The Messiah turned and beat feet for one of the Suburbans, Bruno and another linebacker type flanking him on either side.

  “You staying, G?” Nondescript Man asked.

  Garza hung back from the rest of the Churchmen. “Yeah.” He clasped hands with the man, and the familiarity b
etween them was clear and deep. “We got another delivery Friday night. You know he wants me to keep an eye on everything over here. Prefer to be with you guys, though.”

  He? He who? Church? This Azziz person? Someone else entirely? Was Garza with Church or the boatmen? Or was he an emissary from one to the other? Shane’s brain rattled off a stream of unanswerable questions. And hadn’t this whole thing been that way—every time they managed to cut the head off one mystery, three others sprouted.

  “Roger that,” Nondescript Man said. “Watch your back.”

  “Always,” Garza said, nodding. Then he hurried to the passenger door of the box truck and hopped inside.

  The last of the boatmen went aboard. They reeled in the lines, then the boats were turning around, preparing to head out into the dark cover of open water.

  On land, the engines in the four vehicles revved. Once the boats cleared the end of the pier, the vehicles pulled out one by one, lining up into a convoy.

  Staying low, gun drawn, Shane scrabbled across the barge following the direction of the boats. “I might be able to take out their motors,” he said.

  “Negative. Negative. Stand down,” came Nick’s voice. “Church’s men are still in range. We cannot engage.”

  Peering over his shoulder, Shane saw the row of taillights just coming along the side of the granary, barely out of the lot.

  For one last moment, Shane held on to the hope that he could save those women’s lives. Letting go of that hope was like driving a dagger into his heart. It left him grasping his chest and gulping down air. Loosening the grip on his gun, Shane went down on his knees, his head hanging on his shoulders. Long minutes passed, during which he forced himself to stay in that place, to feel what it felt like.

  To feel what failure felt like. Again.

  Then, looking to the sky, Shane made a vow. If he couldn’t save the victims, he would find a way to avenge them. One way or another, Church was going down. And somehow, some way, Shane would be the one to make it happen.

  CRYSTAL WOKE FIRST. Gently rolling on her back, she stared up at the early-morning light making patterns on the ceiling. The butterfly mobile turned slowly, bringing the yellow one closer, then the orange.