Adam Ito was in his warehouse watching his men unloading crates of decorative urns and tea sets from a shipping container that had just come in from China.
His crew boss had the manifest, carefully checking numbers against the pallets being unloaded. Mahalo’s size and girth were massive, and the amount of sweat on his bald head and dark skin gave his large body an ebony sheen. To Adam, who was a fan of sumo in his native Japan, Mahalo was so massive he was almost beautiful.
But then his gaze shifted to the man operating the forklift, and beauty was not a word he could associate with him. Judd Wayne had a rolled-up black-and-white bandanna tied around his head. The old T-shirt he was wearing had the sleeves cut out. He was sweat-soaked, plastering everything he was wearing to his body like a second skin, and he exuded sexy—something Adam envied.
Even though Judd did his job, he was an unknown, which always made Adam uneasy. And, from the complaint Mahalo made against him this morning, it appeared Judd wasn’t averse to pushing boundaries. Adam understood the male need for sex, but how long did it take to find a hooker, these days?
Adam stayed for another half hour to reassure himself they had the job well in hand, then returned to his limo to enjoy the cool air. He’d already given Mahalo the news about the special shipment coming in Friday morning and told him to ensure the crew would be available and on the dock by 1:00 a.m.
He poured himself a glass of sparkling water, added a few cubes of ice from the ice bucket and took a quick sip, appreciating the effervescence. After one last glance at the crew in action, he pressed the intercom.
“Tommy, take me home.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver said, then put the limo in gear and left the dock.
* * *
Mahalo breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the boss’s exit—he didn’t like it when Ito stayed to watch—then returned to the task at hand. One glance at the manifest indicated two more pallets in the container and then they’d be through. Before they scattered for lunch, he needed to let the guys know about the new orders, so he left the warehouse to round them up. They arrived at their own speed and then had to wait for the last one to come out of the bathroom. As soon as he arrived, Mahalo began.
“Listen up. Mr. Ito has a special shipment coming in at 3:00 a.m. Friday morning and he needs all of us here.”
The men shifted from one foot to the other. One showed his displeasure by spitting tobacco juice from the wad in his jaw only feet from where Mahalo was standing.
A half dozen of them let fly with complaints. But the undercurrent of grumbling ceased instantly when they saw the look on the crew boss’s face.
“Shut the fuck up,” Mahalo snapped. “I want every one of you here at the warehouse before midnight Thursday night. I know the boss said 1:00 a.m., but if you don’t show, it’s on my head. I want to know you’re here before he is, and no excuses, or don’t come back at all and pray you never see me again.” He stared straight at Judd Wayne when he said it. “A shipment will be unloaded here and we have to transfer it into the container ASAP. You know the drill.”
Judd wasn’t one of them complaining. He had a feeling this was going to be the shipment he’d been waiting for.
“Are we through for now?” Judd asked.
Mahalo glared. “Why? Want to chase some more tail?”
“No. I’m hungry and there’s a food truck just down the pier. Want anything?”
Mahalo blinked, absently rubbing his big belly. “Uh...sure, why not? Whatever they have, I want two.”
When he reached for his wallet, Judd held up his hand. He’d stood up to Mahalo earlier, and now it was time to smooth things over. “It’s okay, boss. This one’s on me, but I’m driving. Too damn far and hot to walk it. Back ASAP.”
“Hey, Judd, got room for me to hitch a ride?”
Judd glanced behind him. It was Munoz.
“Yeah, sure, why not?” he said.
A couple more of the men followed behind him, one on a motorcycle, a couple of them in a beat-up Jeep.
They stood in line for shrimp tacos, and when they finally reached the counter, they placed their orders and paid, then stepped aside to wait for delivery.
Jack was eyeing a pelican perched on a nearby pier when he heard the men start to laugh. He turned around to see what was funny and realized they were all looking at a little television inside a truck.
“Whoa...look at her! You wouldn’t want to make that one mad.”
Jack moved closer.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Look...they’re showing it again,” Munoz said. “Just watch.”
At first all Jack saw were the backs of people crossing a street, but when he recognized the florist shop in the clip, his heart skipped a beat. The building Shelly worked in was on the opposite side of the street from that florist.
“Look! Here’s where you see some dude trying to snatch this woman’s purse. See! There’s the knife in his hand. He’s already cut the strap off her shoulder and is trying to pull it out of her grasp. Now watch this!”
Jack kept thinking, why did that person film what was happening instead of calling out a warning? Then he saw that long curly hair and knew before the woman turned around it was Shelly. He felt sick but hid his shock. He watched her look over her shoulder, saw the fear on her face, but then all of a sudden she kicked sideways, hyperextending the mugger’s knee. He couldn’t hear the man’s shriek but could see his face contorting in pain.
“Now here comes the hammer,” Munoz said.
And that was exactly what it looked like. Jack gritted his teeth as he witnessed her finish the rotation with her arm extended, her fingers curled, aiming with the heel of her hand. And just as he’d taught her, she used the momentum of her body to increase the impact of the blow. Blood spurted from the mugger’s nose as his head snapped back, and then he was down. People were crowding around her again as the clip ended.
“Man, she is one fine bitch,” Munoz said. “I wouldn’t mind tapping that.”
Jack resisted the urge to punch him and closed his eyes, remembering clearly the self-defense lessons he’d given Shelly for weeks on end.
Then the woman in the food truck called out a name.
“Judd, your food is ready.”
He made himself focus and stepped up to the window. “Thanks,” he said, and then headed for his car.
He started it up to get cool as he waited for Munoz, and picked up one of the tacos from his order and began to eat. The food settled his hunger but not his anxiety. He needed to hear Shelly’s voice to make sure she was okay.
A short while later he and Munoz drove back to the warehouse. Mahalo was waiting in the doorway when they arrived.
“Two orders of shrimp tacos and they’re damn good,” Jack said.
Mahalo took the bag. “Thanks,” he said, and ambled off into the shore side of the warehouse to catch some of the sea breeze while he ate. Jack grabbed a bottle of water out of the old refrigerator from their lounge area and followed, not for the conversation, but the cooler air.
Houston was an amazing city, but for a man who’d been raised in Colorado, it was too damn hot. He leaned back against a bench right in front of a broken window overlooking Galveston Bay and took a drink, savoring the cold liquid sliding down his throat.
Mahalo knew he was there, but he was clearly not in the mood for talking, and that was fine with Jack. They’d gotten into it earlier when he’d been out late, but the last thing he needed was any extra heat on him because Mahalo was pissed. It was better to stay quiet and amicable. The big man ate, and Jack finished off his water, then tossed it into a nearby trash barrel.
The bay was full of ships, some anchored offshore waiting their turn to off-load. One was already sailing out of the harbor as Jack looked up. He wondered which ship was designated to carry Ito’s illegal cargo. God, he wanted this job over with, and he wanted to hear Shelly’s voice.
“Hey, boss!”
Mahalo looked up.
“Are we done for the day?”
“Yeah,” Mahalo said.
“Then I think I’m gonna head out. I’m going back to my place. I want a shower and to catch some z’s before we report back here tomorrow.”
Mahalo swallowed what he was chewing. Even though he wasn’t in charge of their time off, he gave Jack a hard look. “Ten p.m. tomorrow night and don’t you fuck up on me. You drive the forklift.”
Jack slid off the bench. “I’ll be here.”
Munoz walked over as Jack passed him. “You leavin’?”
Jack nodded and kept on going.
“Hey, you wanna hang out tonight...maybe play some pool down at Smokey Joe’s?”
“I’m going home and sleeping until I wake up tomorrow,” Jack said.
Munoz shrugged. “Yeah, okay. Next time.”
Jack just kept walking. He noticed Munoz glance at the boss, then leave before Mahalo gave him something to do.
The moment Jack got in his car, he grabbed a burner phone from the glove box and made a call to Shelly as he was driving away. The phone rang and rang, and he was bordering on panic when he finally heard her voice and realized she’d been asleep, which also meant she was home. Shit. She never left work unless something was wrong.
“Baby, it’s me.”
He heard her breath catch, and then she was crying.
“I am so glad to hear your voice,” she said.
“I saw what happened to you on the news. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I am now. The mugger didn’t hurt me, but I had to stand out in the heat too long and I fainted.”
Jack groaned. “Are you alright now?”
“Yes, yes, I swear. Mitzi was the one who sent me home, and I’m glad she did.”
Jack was bothered and it showed in the tone of his voice. The guilt he felt at leaving her alone for such long periods of time never eased.
“I’m never there for you when you need me and I know it, but something is going down within the next thirty-six hours that may put an end to this assignment. Bear with me, baby. I can’t wait to come home.”
Shelly wiped away tears with the tail of her T-shirt. “I’ll be here, whenever you do. Just stay safe. That’s all I want.”
“Okay. Gotta go. I’m about to get into the middle of noon-hour traffic. Love you so much.”
“Love you more,” Shelly said, and disconnected.
Jack felt the disconnect all the way to his bones, then dropped the burner phone into the console and took the on-ramp onto a freeway, accelerating into flight mode, which was the designated speed for Houston.
It took him forty-five minutes to get back to his apartment building. After he parked, he ran all the way up the outer steps to the third floor, then down the open hallway to room 355.
He checked the lock to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with, then slipped inside, locking the door behind him. All the shades and curtains had been pulled so the rooms were dark but still easily navigated by light coming in between the slats in the shades. He paused in the hall to adjust the temperature down five degrees because he liked to sleep in the cold, then went to the bedroom and stripped.
He turned on the bathroom light as he entered, eyed the day-old beard and his wild hair and turned on the water in the shower. As soon as the steam was rising, he got in and soaped his entire body twice before he felt clean, then did the same thing to his hair. Before he left the shower, he grabbed the shaving cream and his razor and started to finish the job, then hesitated and laid the razor back on the rack. Clean was one thing. Looking well-groomed was not the look he was going for. He towel-dried his hair and then dried himself.
He was looking for the blow-dryer when he caught a glimpse of something in the fogged-up mirrors and jumped. Just for a second he thought someone else had snuck in, until he realized it was him.
“Dammit,” he muttered, and swiped a towel across the mirror to clear away the condensation. He was always on edge, on the alert. In this line of work, he had to be. But now his own reflection was startling him. He was ready to be done with it all.
He swiped his hand across the condensation and cleared a patch of the mirror. He had what he considered an ordinary face with a jawline leaning toward square, which was now covered in black whiskers. Even though Shelly called him “her hunk,” he saw only regular features and a nose that had been broken twice. He had his father’s eyes—almost as black as his hair.
Thinking of his father came with the usual pang of sadness. His parents were long since dead.
He’d been undercover so long this time around that it was becoming harder to remember normal. Maybe after what he’d learned today his luck would change.
He went from the bathroom back into his bedroom, pulled down the sheets on his bed, then sat down and picked up his phone and made a call to Charlie Morris, his contact at the FBI.
Charlie answered promptly.
“Special Agent Morris.”
“It’s me. I have something for you.”
“What’s up?” Charlie asked.
“Some kind of a special shipment is coming in at the warehouse this Friday morning at 3:00 a.m. As soon as it arrives, we load it into a shipping container. Don’t know where it’s bound, but whatever it is, I know it’s contraband or we’d be doing all this in broad daylight like all the other shipments coming in and going out.”
“Good job,” Charlie said. “I’ll let them know, and remember that you’re going to be arrested with all the others.”
“Yeah, no problem. I’m sick of this gig,” Jack said.
“I can only imagine,” Charlie said. “Stay safe.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. He disconnected and then rolled over onto his side, pulled up the covers and was asleep less than a minute after his head hit the pillow.
* * *
But Charlie Morris didn’t roll over and go to sleep. He was already notifying their boss, Deputy Director Wainwright, who would start the ball rolling on organizing the bust.
Charlie’s partner, Nolan Warren, overheard enough of the conversation to know something was finally breaking. As soon as Charlie delivered the message, Nolan asked, “Is this all about the Ito case?”
Charlie nodded. “It appears so. I sure hope so for Jack’s sake. He’s ready to come in.”
“I wouldn’t be any good at undercover work,” Nolan said.
“It wouldn’t be my choice of assignments, either,” Charlie said, and then logged out. “I’m going to have lunch with Alicia. See you later.”
“Give her my best,” Nolan said.
“Will do,” Charlie said, then grabbed his suit coat and gun and paused on his way out to let their clerk, Fred Ray, know where he was going.
Fred was a skinny redhead who wanted to be a field agent in the worst way but kept failing one portion of the test that really mattered. He could fire a gun, but he never hit anything. So he rode desk duty and envied the field agents from afar. When he saw Agent Morris coming, he paused what he was doing.
“Going to lunch?” Fred asked.
“Yes, having a late lunch with Alicia.”
Fred grinned. “Noted. How is your wife these days? She should be due soon, right?”
The very mention of the baby was all it took to put a huge smile on Charlie’s face.
“She is eight months and three weeks pregnant, so ‘any day now’ is how her obstetrician puts it.”
“Frieda and I have three, so I know how you feel. Enjoy your lunch and my best to your wife.”
“Thanks, man,” Charlie said, and walked out of the office with a bounce in his step.
* * *
Thursday night had finally arrived, and none too soon for Jack. He was antsy to get to the warehouse and to bring this case to a close. It was starting to rain as he arrived on the dock and it was habit to check out his surroundings. As far as he could tell, there was nothing out of place. He took note of the fact that he was thirty minutes early and kept driving until he reached the warehouse.
As he got out of his car, he saw the lights were on in the building and the main door was ajar. At least Mahalo was thinking ahead and not making them all wait in the rain for him to open up.
A couple of men were already inside playing cards on top of a crate when Jack walked in. Mahalo was on the phone—with the boss, Jack assumed. Adam Ito was always present, whether a shipment was coming in or going out. He couldn’t imagine him missing an important job like this.
Mahalo saw him come in, nodded once to approve his arrival and then lumbered away, making sure he was too far away to be overheard.
Jack sat down, glanced at his watch and then leaned back. He pulled out a pocketknife and began cleaning his fingernails, then picked up a chunk of wood that had broken off from one of the pallets and began whittling it down for lack of anything else to do.
Munoz arrived a couple of minutes later, and then another man, and then another until all of them were on the scene. Mahalo came back to the front of the warehouse and motioned at Jack.
“Go make sure that forklift is fueled up and in working order, then bring it up.”
“Yeah, okay,” Jack said, and headed back to where the forklift was parked.
He checked everything including oil pressure, filled up the gas tank, raised the lift up and down a couple of times to reassure himself that it was also working, then drove it up front and parked.
“Good to go,” he told Mahalo, then went into the bathroom to wash the grease and oil from his hands.
By the time he was finished, someone had claimed the chair he’d been sitting in, so he climbed up on a stack of wooden crates and sat, his long legs dangling off the side.
Now they waited.
* * *
It was just before 2:00 a.m. when Mahalo got a call. He answered, listened, then dropped the phone back in his pocket and activated the switch that raised the massive warehouse doors. As the doors went up, Jack began hearing the approach of an incoming helicopter, but instead of passing overhead, it sounded as if it was landing.
Before he could figure out what was happening, he saw Ito set a briefcase down at the top of the stairs, then noted Ito’s guards coming down from the second floor and looked away. Son of a bitch. Ito came by chopper, not the limo. Jack didn’t have a way to give the Bureau a heads-up but had to believe they were already on-site somewhere and had seen that for themselves.
He also noted the two special bodyguards who came down ahead of him were armed to the teeth. As soon as they reached the last step, they stood to one side, waiting as Ito descended. After a few remarks to the guards, Ito began making the rounds, checking out his men.
Jack knew it was only a matter of time before he got to him, and he braced himself. Nothing was ever good enough for the man.
Then he overheard Ito telling Mahalo that the delivery was coming in a bit early, which made Jack nervous. Dammit! Another slight change of plans. But when Adam Ito finally got to him, he barely noted his presence. Jack breathed a little easier as he readjusted his shoulder holster and sat quietly, waiting for everything to unfold.
Before Ito’s arrival, time moved slowly, but after his appearance, it flew. It was ten minutes to three in the morning when they heard a truck approaching.
The rain had stopped a short while before, so when Mahalo heard it, he walked out to make sure it was their delivery, then gave the truck driver a thumbs-up and motioned him inside.
The delivery was a little early, but not enough to matter. Jack started to get down from where he was sitting, but then Mahalo motioned them all to wait. The buyer and the seller had a little business to attend to before the unloading began.
Ito’s bodyguards matched his stride as he moved to the open doorway of the warehouse. Then all of a sudden another man appeared out of the night, also with guards. Jack couldn’t see his face clearly, but he heard Ito call him Dumas. He couldn’t hear what was being said from his location, but when Mahalo ran back upstairs to retrieve the briefcase, he guessed it might be the laptop he’d need to transfer the money.
At the same time Ito was getting set up, Dumas had his men unload two crates from the truck so that Ito could preview the goods. From his perch, Jack got a glimpse of the lettering on the side of the crate. ATacMS, then MGM and then a series of numbers, but it was the words below it that shocked him. Prototypes. That meant new stuff. Weapons that could quickly turn the tide of a firefight. The hair crawled on the back of his neck. These weapons could not leave this dock.
Then he began looking at the men with Dumas, and when he zeroed in on one of them, his heart stopped. There was a man looking straight at him, and the moment their gazes connected, the man grinned. It was one of Jack’s snitches who went by the name of Ritter, and he was already pointing and shouting.
Oh hell.
Jack had but a few seconds to react. The only door out of the warehouse was barred by armed men, and running up to the roof would get him nowhere. Ritter’s ID had just declared him dead meat. He leaped to his feet and ran across the stacks of crates, moving toward the broken window at the back of the warehouse.
“Stop him! Stop him! He’s a Fed. You have a fucking Fed in on this? We’re all going down!” Ritter kept screaming.
Adam Ito spun around, and when he saw Judd Wayne leaping from one stack of crates to another trying to get away, he started shouting.
“Kill him! Kill him! Don’t let him get away!”
Ito’s men were shooting now, and so were the others. Jack pulled his gun as he ran and fired into the crowd without looking back.
His heart was pounding, bullets flying all around him. He heard one whiz by his head. The broken window was only a few yards away when he heard the chopper warming up above him. Dammit. Ito was going to get away.
The sound of gunfire echoed all around him as he leaped over the chasm between the last two stacks of crates. Without slowing down, he lowered his head, put his arms up to protect his face and went headfirst through the broken window.
He’d made it but was falling down, down toward the water! Then seconds before impact, it felt like his entire right shoulder had been ripped from his body. He hadn’t made it after all.
He went into the water on his back, knocking the air from his lungs. While he was struggling to catch a breath, the water closed over his face and then he was sinking.
* * *
“I got him! I got him!” Munoz said. “Fuckin’ Fed. Damn pig. He’s fish bait now!”
But his glee was cut short as the warehouse was suddenly swarming with federal agents.
Dumas had been trying to get his goods back on their truck and off the pier, but it was too late. More shots were fired, but this time it was the Feds doing the shooting. Four men dropped, and then the rest were so greatly outnumbered that they responded to the agents’ orders and began dropping their weapons and surrendering.
Agent Charlie Morris had been waiting for this night for months. Jack McCann was his friend, and he was finally going to bring him in. But as he searched the line of men down on their knees, he realized Jack was missing.
One of Ito’s men laughed.
“You looking for your snitch? He went out that window with a bullet in his back, and I hope the son of a bitch is dead.”
Charlie hid his shock as he immediately turned, grabbed a couple of other agents, and they took off running. By the time they reached the edge of the dock and looked out into the dark expanse of Galveston Bay, he saw nothing. His gut knotted.
He radioed in for boats and search teams, while he and his men began a land search, dividing up and running along the pier in both directions in hopes they’d spot him close by.
Within thirty minutes, there was a boat on scene with searchlights on the water, slowly circling the area, looking for a survivor, or a body.
* * *
Jack might have passed out from the pain, except for the shock of the cold water. In desperate need of oxygen and with his shoulder on fire, he was swimming upward with his one good arm as fast as he could go. Just when he thought his lungs were going to burst, he surfaced.
The first breath of air was a game changer. Treading water, he looked back. Feds were all over the place now, and above, the receding lights of a chopper in the sky.
Adam Ito!
The son of a bitch did it. He was getting away, which meant as long as Jack was alive, Ito would be chasing him until one of them was dead, and that would put Shelly in constant danger. The agents would figure out what happened to him and begin looking for his body. He couldn’t let himself be found, and he was beginning to weaken. He had to find a way to get ashore.
He began to kick his legs again, but his boots were full of water and pulling him down, so he rolled over onto his back to float, kicking his legs to propel himself as far away from that loading dock as he could get.
Away from the lights of the city, the night sky above him was beautiful, peppered with light from stars that had long since burned away. He could hear voices now and then coming from the anchored cargo ships, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He kept kicking and floating, although he was getting weaker and the stars were dimming. It took a few moments for him to notice he was caught in the outgoing tide. It was pulling him out farther from shore, and farther into the bay.
Dammit. After everything, this was not the ending he had envisioned.
His legs felt like lead. He felt himself sinking.
Oh no. My Shelly. So sorry. Love you forever.
And then the stars went out.
* * *
“Paul! Grab him, dammit! He’s sinking!”
Paul Faber glared at his fishing buddy. “I see that, Lou. Get me closer.”
Lou accelerated the outboard engine, maneuvering their skiff right beside the drowning man, and a heartbeat later, Paul leaned over, grabbed him by a leg and pulled him into their boat.
“Good job,” Lou said. “Is he alive?”
Paul was on his knees as he moved their lantern a little closer to the body and began checking for a heartbeat.
“Barely,” he said, and started doing CPR as Lou hit the gas on the outboard motor and aimed the skiff through the bay back toward their landing on the opposite shore.
It wasn’t until Paul saw blood mixing with the water beneath him that he realized the man was hurt. He hastened his chest compressions and was soon rewarded when the man choked, then started coughing up water. Paul turned him over onto his side so the water could run out, and that was when he saw the bullet hole in his shirt.
“This guy’s been shot.”
“Oh man! Think we should call the cops? No, wait! What if they ticket us for fishing out here after dark?”
Paul frowned. “You gonna measure a man’s life against some measly fine?”
And then the man between them suddenly groaned and spoke only two words in a deep, raspy voice.
“No cops.”
* * *
Jack didn’t remember anything but the sight of the stars above him as he’d begun to sink, so coming to in a rowboat with strangers was something of a shock.
“What’s your name? Are you a criminal?” Paul asked.
Jack coughed, then shook his head once. “No name. No perp. Smugglers... They shot... Help... Hide...” Then he rolled over onto his back as a wave of blinding pain pulled him under.
Paul eyed the man closely and made a knee-jerk decision. “Fine, we’ll call him Dude, and I’m betting five bucks he’s some kind of cop. Perp is cop talk.” Then Paul got up on his knees and pulled off his shirt.
“What are you doing?” Lou asked.
“Gonna pack this wound and hope it slows down the bleeding until we can get him help.”
Lou frowned. “He said no cops. Doctors have to report gunshot wounds on patients.”
“I know that. I’m not taking him to a hospital. I know a guy,” Paul said.
“We both found him. We’ll both take him,” Lou said.
Paul folded his T-shirt into a thick cloth pad, then yanked off the man’s T-shirt and used his skinning knife to cut it straight up the front. He began pulling on the thin knit fabric to elongate it, then started rolling it up, turning it into a long, thin rope.
Sweat was dripping out of his hair and into his eyes as he shoved the pad he’d made against the open wound, and tied it down as tight as he could with the makeshift rope.
“What made you think to do something like that?” Lou asked.
“Two tours in Afghanistan,” Paul said, and then looked toward shore. “We’re almost there. As hot and muggy as this night is, he shouldn’t feel this cold. Hurry. I think Dude is going into shock.”