15. Dallas

CHAPTER 15

DALLAS

"...she's been there for a few weeks now," I say, finishing my update to Nicole as she flips through the stack of passports I stole along with the passport Isaac asked me get for him.

Nicole sits quietly in the driver's seat, her eyes shift their focus to me, eager for any information. We are in an empty parking garage somewhere outside Vegas. My car is two rows down and I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my own skin. There’s this flicker of fear in me that’s been growing bigger and bigger ever since Isaac Thoreau and I began developing rapport. And at times it all feels like one huge fucking lie—like there’s more to him than what I know.

It’s distressing.

"Interesting," Nicole murmurs, taking it all in. "But you don't have much more than that? No solid leads yet?"

I shake my head, aware that time is slipping away. "No, not yet. But something's going down. I can tell. Everything points to human trafficking, but since I don't have proof. Don’t want to jump the gun until I know for sure."

Nicole frowns, clearly concerned. "And Thoreau? You've managed to get close to him?"

"Close enough." I nod, remembering the way Isaac looked at me, those intense brown eyes. "He trusts me from what I can tell. They want me to go with them as part of the security team to meet up with a client in two days. Not sure who the client is or what the deal is about. I wasn’t given more info."

"Good work, Dallas," Nicole says with a weak smile that disappears almost instantly as she slides the passports back into the plastic bag. "If Thoreau is really involved in human trafficking, he can’t continue walking the streets."

The weight of my responsibility presses down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. So many lives depend on me. I simply can't afford to fail. "Thanks." I clear my throat, still unsure if I should confide with Nicole about the incident with my apartment. I’ve been debating since the beginning of this conversation. It could be nothing or it could be everything. Or they could just decide to pull me off the assignment and… for some sick reason, even though I’m not feeling myself while I’m around those guys, I don’t want to quit yet. I have a hunch I barely scratched the surface of what the Hellhounds and their boss are about.

"How did you get this?" Nicole asks motioning at the wound on my cheek.

"Doing an errand for Thoreau."

"Everything okay?" She’s too damn perceptive.

"Someone was in my apartment. Probably Jeremy or one of his guys."

"I thought you said you developed a good working relationship with Thoreau."

"I did but Jeremy doesn’t like me. I think he’s trying to dig some dirt on me to get Thoreau to kick me out."

"Are you being careful?"

"I am. Does the Bureau have my back? What if he has the brain to send someone to Arizona and figures out that Cody Smith doesn’t look anything like I do?"

"I’ll take care of those loose ends."

"Thanks."

"Be careful, alright?" Nicole warns as our conversation comes to an end. Her eyes hold genuine concern for me. And I’m grateful because I’m tired of being a pawn, of wearing a mask. It never happened to me before—not during previous missions. But this time… It just feels different. And I wonder if I'm no longer cut out for this type of work, if I should be asking for some desk job.

"I'll do my best," I reply, trying to sound more confident than I actually am.

Exiting her car, I glance around to make sure no one is following me before heading to my own vehicle.

The second I slide into the driver's seat, memories of Isaac's touch invade my thoughts, making it difficult to focus on anything else. What the hell? Why does this keep happening to me?

And then my mind drifts back to my teenage years, recalling a memory I'd buried deep within myself.

Back in high school, there was a boy on the football team with me. Ryan. We'd snuck around together, keeping our relationship hidden from everyone because we didn't think they'd understand. Those moments held a certain thrill, but eventually, fear of discovery led to us going our separate ways.

I’ve known this about me all my life, carried this secret through the military during DADT, carried it with me ever since I joined the Bureau. But I never acted on it. Never thought about it. Never needed to. And now Isaac Thoreau is invading my mind all hours of the day with his ridiculously expressive eyes and pretty mouth.

No. Just no!

After a few minutes of sulking, I shake my head and I push those thoughts away, finding them strange and unnecessary.

This isn't the time to dwell on the past crush or my confusing feelings toward Isaac.

I need to stay focused on the mission.

With a heavy heart, I drive off into the night, ready to face whatever lies ahead.

Two days later, I find myself squeezed into the back seat of an SUV Marco's steering. Ricky is beside me, ending another round of Fortnite on his phone with a grin when the SUV swerves toward a large desolate property.

Through the tinted window, I watch us drive past a heavy chain-link fence encircling the building and the land around it. The metal, all rusted and bruised by time, clings to the earthy palette of parched Nevada sand like camouflage. It’s a sad view.

Gravel groans under our tires as we roll into an empty parking lot.

The early afternoon sun ricochets off shards in a weather-ravaged concrete floor before meeting what looks like a set of abandoned warehouses.

"Stay sharp," Jeremy barks. His voice prickles my nerves as he shoves me a cold Glock. His eyes carry an unsettling mix of wariness. "And look out for anything fishy."

"Sure," I return evenly while shrugging off the bite in Jeremy's tone. Can't blame him though–I wouldn't drop my guard around me either. Outsiders don't usually score high on trust hierarchies and he has no clue about how deep my potential threat runs.

But right now, I don’t have time to argue with him. I have to focus on collecting as much intel as possible. And it’s quite jarring when you’re kept out from what’s really at play.

What came clearly from Jeremy was simple—his requirement for perimeter backup with military chops during some crucial meet-up who can also provide an extra pair of watchful eyes but not much else.

Asshole is careful.

He looks dumb but he’s far from it.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he thinks I’m a cop.

Being ready to protect the cover is nothing new to me, though. I’m prepared if the test comes.

The warehouse looms before us, its entrance like an open mouth spitting darkness.

There are eight of us, including Isaac. He rode in a separate car with Seven. Hector and Ocho took the third SUV. Everyone is armed, which tells me that the Hellhounds are meeting with someone they don’t trust. Or don’t do business with.

Russians?

I’ve been suspecting this much but without solid proof, I can’t do shit except just going with the flow to see where that flow takes me.

As we make our way inside, the atmosphere becomes increasingly tense. The air ratchets up a notch, going from graveyard stillness to electric anticipation.

The iron tang of construction dust fills my nostrils as Jeremy and I slip into the building first, armed like soldiers going into war.

My every nerve ending is alert as we survey the skeleton of a space overrun by neglect. My grip on my gun is white-knuckled, the cool steel my weird comfort in this stress-filled silence. Even behind my cracking facade, I'm scanning every single shadow for signs of danger—that's survival.

We sweep through the rest of the sprawling space before daring to go upstairs.

There, in the bleach-white open expanse crisscrossed by bulky concrete columns, shattered glass strewn across unkempt windowsills paints disturbing patterns onto the floor. Dust swirls under weak shafts of harsh light slanting between cracks in partially boarded-up windows.

Disturbing this eerie tranquility are two muscled figures in black standing guard at the far end of the room by the door, their stone-cold masks more intimidating than their weapons. Could be military-grade. Possibly AKs. Heavy-hitters brought out when things don't usually end with a round of friendly fire.

Fuck.

I’m nervous despite all this being familiar territory. The only difference is that I didn’t need to pretend to be someone I’m not back on the battlefield. Here, I have to split myself in half.

An array of chairs, clean and new, forms a circle at the room's heart.

Isaac moves effortlessly across the space and eases into one. No words escape his lips. Silence is his companion today. His gaze skates over to his Rolex before getting lost in the enigmatic void of the nearest window. He's fixated on a hole gnawing at its wooden frame like it hides secrets only discernible to him.

Jeremy and Ricky are statues nearby, their hands lingering over cold, silent weapons. The rest of us latch onto the shadows while Seven is guarding the entrance leading to the stairs.

This feels heavy–critical to destiny itself.

And then the massive door at the very end of the room swings open and a parade of men file in.

The one to enter first is another brick-faced guy with an AK as if they all come from the same assembly line.

He is followed by the man I recognize instantly. His every line has been etched into my brain ever since Nicole showed me his photo. Solovey—an elder bleached by time who carries himself with dark authority even though he appears unarmed. He’s tall and fit with a growing belly and plump checks. He's nothing like his photographs I saw. His dark gray three-piece suit probably costs more than I make a year. Some things—even fabrics—just evoke wealth. Up next, is someone fresher-faced in comparison to Solovey, but his attire screams prestige as well. I deduce he’s not the lackey. He’s someone important since he doesn’t appear to be carrying a weapon. At least, not obvious.

The procession draws to its close when four more individuals step in—each armed to the teeth. They leave no doubts about their intent if things don’t go as planned.

"Isaac Thoreau," Solovey greets with a wolfish grin curling around his words. "Pleased to finally make acquaintance."

His approach makes the heavy atmosphere feel even more suffocating.

Solovey’s piercing eyes seem to see straight through me when he glances around the room right before sitting in an empty chair opposite Isaac.

"My son, Vlad," the Russian says, gesturing at the Fresh Face, who positions himself behind Solovey, hands in the pockets of his pinstriped pants. His gaze is just as cunning and unreadable as his father’s. It feels like fingers tracing along my vertebrae when I look at him.

"Vlad assists me with operations," Solovey explains.

And by operations, he of course means all the illegal shit he does. Since his political career back home has come to an end. Asshole got too cocky.

But I don’t have the luxury of letting my imagination play today. I focus on Isaac as he nods curtly at the Russian, acknowledging the information.

"We are a family business, just like you," Yuri supplies with a smile.

"Yes." Isaac’s voice is strained yet polite. And to the outsider that strain is probably not detectable, but I got to know him a little over these past few weeks. I can tell the difference. He sounds on edge. "I hope this meeting proves fruitful for both our organizations."

"Indeed." Yuri’s accent is thick and deliberate. "We have much to offer each other."

"We’ll see," Isaac says, emotionless. He wastes no time getting straight to the point. "So tell me, Mr. Solovey, why do you want to do business with us?"

"Our common friend, Mr. Avagyan, speaks highly of your team," Yuri answers smoothly, his accent lending a dangerous edge to his words. "He tells me you are efficient and most importantly, not under police surveillance."

Isaac's lips curl into a tight-lipped smile. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Yuri. I don't get in bed with people I don't know."

"Understandable," Yuri says with a nod. He makes a swift gesture to his men, and two more stone-faced goons carry in a large wooden box. They deposit it with an echoing thud onto the cold, concrete floor right smack in the middle of the chair-formed circle between Solovey and Isaac. All while Jeremy’s hand is on his Glock as if he’s ready to sprint into action any second.

"Perhaps our product will speak for itself," Solovey brags. "Top-notch quality. It would be a shame for you to pass up on such easy money."

From my corner at the back of the warehouse, I find myself unable to get a glimpse into the mysterious contents of the box. But damn, do I have a hunch.

The instant Jeremy strides forward and draws out an AR-15 from its confines, my premonition solidifies into crystal-clear certainty. I watch him inspecting every inch of the weapon with narrowed eyes—fingers gently tracing over its sleek surface as he evaluates its weight and balance.

The vast warehouse absorbs any other noise, except for the distinct click of a loaded magazine being inserted into place, its sound bouncing off the concrete walls and broken glass.

"Not bad," Jeremy mutters begrudgingly putting the piece back in the box. Though it's clear he'd rather not admit it.

And then Isaac shifts in his chair, unsettling the silence around us. His severe gaze lands on my face, an undercurrent of unspoken expectation charging the air between us. Our eyes are locked for a brief moment, only long enough for me to understand what he wants when he abruptly gestures toward the box with a jerk of his chin.

I nod and I step forward, feeling the weight of everyone’s stares on me, the collective scrutiny of people that would kill me if they knew I was the law.

I pick up the same AR-15 Jeremy just inspected. The bracing bite of cold metal against warm flesh triggers dormant memories; murky shadows from my time in Afghanistan, the land of death and hopelessness.

I remind myself to stay focused, pushing away the insistent echoes of the past. Instead, I turn my attention to the grim reality of the present moment.

These are mint-conditioned, military-grade weapons, no doubt about it—deadly and efficient. As much as it pains me to admit it, Yuri's product is indeed top-notch.

"Looks good," I tell Isaac after I finish examining the piece. Isaac nods. He has chosen to use as little words as possible today and I wonder if the reason he’s mostly quiet is because he’s trying to calculate the pros and the cons of working with Solovey.

Jeremy's expression, on the contrary, is a mix of annoyance and frustration. Apparently, he doesn't appreciate having his judgment second-guessed, especially by someone new.

Isaac glances back at Yuri. "Your guns are impressive, but how can I trust you to deliver on time? My buyers don't tolerate delays."

Yuri smiles that slimy smile that was able to fool millions, but he’s not fooling me. "Mr. Thoreau, I assure you, I am always punctual. You can ask Mr. Avagyan. We’ve been doing business for thirty years."

The air between Isaac and the Russian crackles, a dangerous dance of egos and ambitions.

I watch them closely, knowing that one wrong move could bring everything crashing down.

Isaac's jaw tightens, his eyes never leaving Yuri's. He leans forward in his chair, resting both elbows on his knees. His pose is deceptively relaxed.

The sound of my own breathing seems a thousand times amplified in my head as I wait for him to make his move.

"Who’s to say you won’t stab me in the back?" Isaac hisses out, his voice a knife slicing through the tension.

Yuri sizes him up and after a long moment says, "Why don’t I meet you in the middle, Mr. Thoreau? First shipment is on us. Two hundred premium pieces. I’ll have my men deliver them to the location you name. You keep all the profits and if your client likes that product, feel free to reach out."

"We'll try it out," Isaac finally agrees. "But if there are any issues, this is one and done."

"There won't be any issues, Mr. Thoreau. You have my word."

I feel like a high school kid who’s gone through all four years courting one girl, hoping to get into her panties and tonight is prom night and he knows for a fact he’s finally getting some. And that feeling is great.

Now, I just need to get some solid intel to get these two busted once and for all.

"Shall we drink to our potential partnership?" Yuri suggests with a hand gesture to one of his men. The man quickly retrieves a bottle of expensive Russian vodka and a set of shots from a nearby crate.

The bottle is a beautiful work of art, its deep blue glass etched with intricate silver filigree that forms the shape of a fierce, two-headed eagle. The label bears an elegant Cyrillic script in gold, the glint almost as menacing as the men who surround us.

Shot glasses are distributed among the two groups, mostly the big shots and their right-hands. Alcohol is poured.

"Na zdorovie," Yuri says, raising his glass.

Isaac replies with a curt "cheers" before they both down their shots in one swift motion.

This alliance is like a dance with the devil himself—each step taking me further into darkness, yet closer to my ultimate goal, destroy Isaac’s organization and bring down the Russians with him.

The two groups slowly disperse, Yuri and his men disappearing back into the shadows first.

"If we can move it quickly, we could be swimming in green, boss," Jeremy says as he and Isaac walk side by side.

My task is to watch our back but I’m close enough to be able to make out their whispers. My senses are still on high alert, even though it seems like the Russians want to be friends.

"Product is good, no doubt about it," Ricky pitches in.

The warehouse door groans shut behind us as we file outside, the rusty metal screeching in protest.

"What do you think, boss?" Jeremy asks.

"Not sure," Isaac responds noncommittally. "We’ll have to talk to Toro first."

"He’ll dig those Russian guns."

"Does he need us to double the shipment? Because cutting ties with Red Skull isn’t an option."

Toro.

Red Skull.

Their mention sends prickles down my spine like raindrops on a tin roof.

So Thoreau does mingle with cartel blood after all. This unexpected knowledge triggers shock waves through my senses.

As we finish crossing the lot, we begin to scatter toward our respective vehicles. The tension from my shoulders finally starts dissipating like smoke in the wind.

Today was productive.

Marco elbows me. "You’re gonna get a ride upgrade, huh?" He gives me a crooked half-grin. "Junkyard has been calling that piece of shit you’re driving since 1999, buddy."

I can’t help it. I scoff at the joke.

Sometimes, these guys aren’t all gloom and doom. Ricky and Marco can be jokesters. Flynn bought me a bottle of very expensive tequila as a thank-you for patching him up. His wife sent cookies. Even Hector is okay. He shared with me some Spanish expletives that, according to him, have a stronger impact than "pinche puto."

"Just hang tight with us." Marco's words are accompanied by a reassuring pat on my back before he navigates his way around the SUV, ready to take control of the wheel.

The growl of multiple engines that I didn’t care to bother about because we are right by the highway escalates. The sound is disturbingly close, right outside the wire fence that surrounds the property.

Through the jagged holes, I glimpse bikes.

At least four, maybe five. Riders in all black.

Like phantom streaks, they blur past the mundane traffic and then steer off the road and…oh shit…

My gut screams out a primal warning.

Just as I'm attempting to connect these erratic puzzle pieces together, reality cracks open around me with tale-tell bursts of gunfire.

A cruel déjà vu engulfs me and I’m thrown back into the memory. I’m somewhere on the battlefield with bullets whizzing by and explosions blasting.

But survival instinct kicks in, not letting me falter longer than a passing heartbeat before responding.

I shove Marco to the ground. "Take cover!" My own voice sounds foreign in the chaos as I hurl myself behind one of the parked cars and ready my Glock, praying to God Jeremy didn't give me a faulty one. I wouldn’t put anything past him at this point.

When I scan our discarded formation—it suddenly hits me: the usually well-oiled machine that’s our crew either hasn’t expected an ambush or hasn’t dealt with one in a long time. Shock and fury paint everyone’s faces. Those I can see anyway. Marco. Ricky. Seven. Each one frantically scrambling for their own gun.

I hear Hector’s shouting something about calling for backup.

"Got my back?" I ask Marco. He's still sucking in desperate lungfuls of air beside me. Hunched behind the SU, we're buried in the clamor of shattering glass and bullets getting intimate with cold metal.

Marco responds without words, just a nod—a pact.

He readies his Glock and gives me a go.

I shuffle toward the vehicle’s edge feeling every jolt of fear playing hopscotch up my spine.

Gulping down a knot of dread, I carefully peek over the disfigured hood, hardly having time for a breath before another bullet flies past inches from my face. Its angry zing tugs strands of my hair against my cheek as if warning me that it won't miss next time.

Fucker.

I slip back down and wait a few seconds, listening to gunfire exchange and the roar of the engines. My next attempt to get a better sense of what’s going on confirms my suspicions. The bikes and bikers themselves have no identifying signs. They are circling the lot, getting closer and closer. The SUV to our right is exposed. Isaac is the only one hiding behind it and he looks like he is out of ammo. And where the fuck is Jeremy when you need him?

"Do you see boss?" Marco whispers.

"Yeah, I see him," I reply without turning my head to Marco.

My eyes are playing SWAT analysis and the verdict?

We're waist-deep in shit.

One of the bikers is rounding the vehicle behind which Isaac is hiding and the biker’s intent is clear. I notice the deadly wink of his gun under the saffron sun and before my brain calculates all the reasons why I shouldn’t do what I do next, I elbow Marco with a curt, "Cover me, man!" and bolt out, aiming for the biker’s thigh. Killing him is a cake I don’t want on my plate but damned if I'll let him drill Isaac Thoreau into Swiss cheese either. The guy's key to wrapping this mission with a neat bow—without him breathing, we’re done for.

These thoughts fracture lightning-fast all around me just as my body shoves itself next to Thoreau.

The Glock in my hand feels heavy as I lock eyes on another biker cruising over. He circles the SUV to get a better angle and fires first. The air stirs all around us.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Take aim.

Squeeze the trigger.

Boom.

The biker crumples like a paper doll to the asphalt, his bike skidding away from him, wheels screaming against the gritty surface.

He’s not dead, just hurt a little. He’ll be fine. I know where to shoot not to kill.

My head snaps instinctively toward Isaac sitting behind me, slumped against our vehicle's metal shell.

Panic grips me.

Crimson splatters stain his pale neck and clothes and he’s breathing hard. Still on my knees, I surge forward and paw at his chest, frantically searching for the source of blood. The injury. My touch is desperate when I yank his shirt open. I just want to ensure he's okay. My target can’t die now that I have a shit load of good intel for Nicole. It would be inconveniently messy for the Bureau.

My heart is pounding and white noise in my ears that’s my pulse drowns out everything else.

And then I hear it. "Get off me!" Isaac snarls, shoving me away with surprising force that sends me tumbling onto hard ground. His eyes blaze with a mixture of anger and pain, and I'm taken aback by the intensity of his reaction. "Don't you ever fucking touch me without my permission," he grinds out through gritted teeth.

My hands hover in the air between us, confusion clouding my mind. "I was just trying to make sure you’re not fucking shot!" I growl back at him, adrenaline in me reached its highest point. I can hardly feel anything. My body has been in war mode ever since the first bullet was released.

Isaac opens his mouth but doesn’t get a chance to say anything.

"Enough!" Jeremy interjects sharply. I don’t know where he came from but he’s suddenly all up in my face as he shoves himself between Isaac and me and waves his gun in front of my nose. "Watch what you're doing, asshole." There’s a dangerous edge to his voice and I know better not to push.

Instead, I draw in a deep breath, my jaw clenched, eyes locked with his. My Glock is on the ground—where I stupidly left it when I was trying to make sure Isaac wasn’t going to bleed to death and I have no way of reaching it without Jeremy ending me right there and then.

"Shit, man," Marco’s voice thunders somewhere behind me. "Fucker’s got you."

I turn my head toward him, only now realizing the gunfire is no more. We are alone in the parking lot and pain flares in my left arm, searing and insistent. Everything in front of my eyes is swimming.

I drop my gaze to the source of that pain and see an angry red blob right above my elbow and a generous trickle of red spills down my forearm and onto the ground.

The adrenaline that has been coursing through my veins begins to ebb, leaving behind a heavy exhaustion.

"Shit," I mutter. I attempt to rise, but gravity pulls at my knees. They kiss the ground instead. Pain, sharp and urgent, claws through every nerve, threatening to swallow my consciousness whole.

My eyes pan over the wreckage surrounding us; it's a depiction of flawed human ambition sprayed across the pavement like modern art.

The air thick with tension presses against me as if it has weight. The scent of burnt gunpowder punches up my nostrils—a harsh reminder of violence just dealt. I press my uninjured hand against my injured arm, feeling the warm stickiness of blood seeping through my fingers.

The aggressive roar of another black SUV slices through the hum of the near highway and the anxious chatter of Isaac’s men. Their voices fluctuate in volume around me—louder then softer then silent—like soundwaves distorted under deep waters.

"Get everyone together and let's move!" Isaac orders.

"Damn, Hawk, you really took a hit," Ricky says, concern filling his eyes as he offers his arm for support. "You gonna be able to walk?"

"I'll manage," I grit out, refusing to show any signs of weakness although I’m dizzy and nauseous. I've come too far and seen way worse to let a little graze slow me down now.

"Alright, man. Just... stay awake, okay?" Ricky's words are meant to reassure me, but all they do is remind me of how much deeper I'm sinking into this world of chaos and violence.

"Let's go, let’s go, let’s, boys!" Jeremy barks impatiently while shoving his Glock all over into the space around him. His eyes are still narrowed in suspicion as they flicker over me when we pile into the vehicle Flynn brought.

Fucking fuck.

Today didn’t go so well.