Dawson
2012
“Where’s the snow?” I asked the street urchin in front of me.
His skinny arm reached out, a little bag full of white poison clutched between his fingers. The track marks marring his skin, a heroin addict’s calling card, stood in stark contrast to his pale complexion.
He must have saved all the heroin for himself because he always claimed he never had any. Or else I would take that from him, too.
I took the bag, dipped the tip of my pinky finger inside, and brought it to my mouth. The only word I can use to describe it was bitter. I hated this part of the job, but I had to make sure I was getting the right stuff from the right guy.
So, we could nail him and his boss.
Undercover work could be a real bitch sometimes.
I shot him an expectant look. “Where’s the rest of it? You said you had an eighth.”
An eighth, or “Big Eight,” meaning an eighth of a kilo. A low level dealer like him shouldn’t have that big of a stash. They’re usually only trusted with one ounce bags.
But my months’ worth of intel told me this guy wasn’t as low level as he appeared to be. Either that, or the kingpins were moving more product directly from the street, rather than filtering it down the hierarchy.
That’s what I was here to find out.
Because that much product in the hands of dumbasses like this guy was even more dangerous.
“Relax, guy,” he said, his paranoid gaze shooting up and down the alley.
He wouldn’t see my officers lurking in the shadows, but they were there.
“The rest is in a secured location I’ll take you to. Had to make sure you knew the shit was good first.”
I pocketed the bag and glared at him. “Is this your first day on the job, asshole? There is no second location when I meet you. I tell you a spot and if you want your goddamned money, you’ll bring all the shit to me.”
He shifted around on his feet, his agitation and probable need for a fix, growing. “And you’ll get it. But I can’t bring that much product out in the open. If I get mugged and it gets stolen, my ass is dead.”
“I don’t give a shit about your ass,” I spat. “I’m not going anywhere with you. How do I know you’re not working for the cops?”
Throw your target off by being the first to mention the cops. Act suspicious and they’ll be less likely to suspect you. Rules of the undercover world.
But this wasn’t good. He was supposed to bring all of the product to this location, so we could nail him right there and obtain all the drugs at the same time. This meant we were going to have to arrest him and then get him to tell us where the shipment was being kept.
A much more arduous task.
And he was getting antsier. Furiously rubbing his arms, licking his lips, sweating profusely. The guy was jonesing bad.
“I ain’t a cop,” he snapped. “You want the shit or not? ‘Cuz I’ve got other buyers I can go to.”
Not anymore he didn’t.
When he started backing away, I knew I had to act.
“I want to renegotiate the price,” I said, signaling to my guys to move in and take him down.
It was my line to give when I was ready for them to arrest us both. It meant I’d gotten all I could get, and the guy was about to vamoose.
All of a sudden, the alleyway was filled with a dozen officers, all shouting at us to “Get down!” and “Put your hands on your head!” I put my arms up and slowly laced my fingers behind my head as I went to my knees. They had to arrest me, so as not to blow my cover.
My undercover work wasn’t over. Yet.
The dealer, on the other hand, was not going down without a fight. His panicked eyes were darting everywhere, clearly looking for an escape as the officers closed in on him.
Then he pulled out a gun.
Fuck.
Everyone froze. It was a tiny ass .380 he’d had so well hidden on his person I hadn’t seen it before.
I eyed the two officers closest to him, silently commanding them to ease back. The last thing this operation needed was a dead cop. The dealer’s hand was shaking so bad, I was afraid the gun was going to accidentally go off, anyway.
“Get back!” the dealer shrieked.
The officer in charge, Kyle Wilson, held his hand up, clearly taking lead. He was a good cop, and I trusted him to know what he was doing.
“Ease up, man,” he told the dealer, speaking in an even tone. “You’re not looking at that much time right now. But if you shoot a cop, you’ll be put away for the rest of your life.”
“I’ll die in jail, anyway!” the dealer shouted, spittle flying out of his mouth. “They won’t want me to talk. I’m a dead man no matter what I do.”
“No, you aren’t,” Kyle said. “If you work with us and tell us who your boss is, we can protect you.”
The dealer laughed manically. “Cops can’t do shit. You’re not the ones who’s runnin’ the streets. I got nowhere to go.”
He put the barrel of the gun to his own temple.
All the officers automatically took a step toward him, and my stomach sank. The guy was so unhinged and not thinking clearly, an unpredictable combination.
“This isn’t the answer, man,” Kyle said, urgency now creeping into his voice. “You have other choices. Let us help you.”
When the dealer’s body ceased all shaking, going perfectly still, I knew it was over.
He looked Kyle straight in the eye. “No one can help me,” he said, and pulled the trigger.
I squeezed my eyes shut and hung my head. Over a year of undercover work felt like it had just gone down the drain. That whacked-out dealer was the key to locating the kingpin, and we’d just fucking lost him.
And we hadn’t even gotten his stash.
Some days, this job could really suck.
I needed Mickie.