Chapter 8

Raylan

8

Itry to limit my interactions with Ariana because she has a certain effect on me. If I give in to it, I will condemn myself. She's too good, too sweet, too different to be a David, yet she is a David, and I keep repeating that in my head, trying to get it to sink in.

I see the effect she has on Kendric, and I know what happened with Sky. To hear that she was a virgin until the other night only serves to make my blood boil. She's too fucking wonderful for this world.

A tinge of jealousy tests me whenever I see Sky getting all morose about her. At least he's got something to miss. I only have my dark fantasies, my wishes, my desires to keep me company at night. It's been a while since I have found myself so intrigued by a woman, and it's coming at the worst possible time and with the wrong woman. We were only supposed to kidnap her and keep her hostage until Henry David submitted to our demands—that was it.

Yet now, the three of us are walking around with our jeans tighter than ever while the girl thinks we're going to slit her throat when it's over. Granted, she is our prisoner, and we haven't been too clear about our intentions. But damn, I think the danger excites her a little.

It's day eight, and the vultures are still circling.

There are more cops out on patrol. Drug dens and stash houses keep getting raided. They're combing the streets of Everton City, desperately looking for Ariana. They've got eyes on the clubhouse, too, but our lawyers hit the right judge with so many injunctions that the police department can't even look at us funny without risking one hell of a lawsuit. That was the first step in our move against the Black Hand—getting a law firm that's out of state and out of their reach.

The district attorney is struggling to get more boots on the ground while the sheriff and the state troopers are spread far and wide around the city. It's just the beginning, but at least they're clearing some of the scum off the streets. It's not enough, though, and it's only a temporary fix, yet it is better than nothing and more than the people of Everton have received over the past few decades.

It's a shame it had to come to this.

And it's only going to get uglier.

Today, I have people to see. There are few that I still trust in the system, and Connor is one of them. Connor and I served in the Marines together. He retired a few years after me and joined the Everton PD because he couldn't stand spending his days at the VA looking for civilian jobs. It just wasn't for him. Con is a good man, a righteous and fair man, and I know he'd never end up in the pocket of a Black Hand. That is why I rely on him for information even though, technically speaking, we're currently on opposing sides of the law.

"You're not supposed to be here," he grumbles when he sees me coming.

He stands outside the corner deli, taco in one hand and soda in the other, his uniform freshly starched and downright pristine—a habit from his days in the military. Our CO used to hassle us over our uniforms relentlessly. I'm glad to see that Con still adheres to those standards.

"It's a lovely day, isn't it?" I reply with a cool smile. "I wanted to go for a walk and get some fresh air."

"On the east side of Everton?" Connor chuckles, accentuating the fine lines around his eyes. I let him finish his taco in peace while I look around. I lost my tail a few blocks ago, though I have no way of knowing which department he's with. The Black Hand has people everywhere.

This is not the quietest neighborhood, but the rats don't come out to play until much later. For now, kids are running up and down the sidewalks, and neighbors are meeting in the park across the street to play chess and reminisce about the good old days. It's sunny and warm and maybe a little too humid for my taste, but I welcome summer with all of its flavors.

"No, I'm serious, you shouldn't be here," he says, constantly scanning the street. "If anybody sees me talking to you—"

"They're not going to suspend you or take your badge. Relax."

"I'm not worried about that, man. I know you're good, Raylan. I don't doubt you for a second, my brother," he shoots back. "But I won't be able to keep helping you if they know we're buddies. They will shut me out."

I give him a wry smile. "My guess is they already know, Con. These people do their homework. But they can't touch you either because that would get the Department of Defense's attention, and as far as I know, their reach is not that broad yet, which is why we must move now."

"I hear you," he replies, tossing the taco wrapper away, and then he chugs his soda before tossing the can, too. Once he's had his fill, I can almost see the color returning to his cheeks.

It makes me laugh. "Fasting again?"

"Thirty-six hours once a week."

"Smart man."

"Just trying to stay young forever," he says, letting out a dry chuckle. "Talk to me. What's going on with that girl, the mayor's daughter? I've got people in the department convinced you had something to do with her abduction."

"Hell, if I know," I say. I don't like lying to my friend, but he can't know about it for obvious reasons. "They can't prove anything anyway, and we've got better lawyers this time around."

"I hope that's enough because the ADA and the mayor are still gunning for you; they're still interviewing for that task force, too."

"Have they interviewed you yet?" I ask, half-smiling.

"I'm scheduled for early next week," he says.

"That was bound to happen. I told you they know we were in the service together. They're keeping you close because of that, because you're useful to them, and because of your spotless record."

A couple of customers step out of the deli, arms loaded with grocery bags. I watch them walk all the way to their car while Connor brings me up to speed on what's been going on in the Everton police force. "They're under a lot of pressure ever since that kid delivered the letter," he says at one point.

"The kid didn't give them much, huh?"

"Nah, paid in cash. Never saw the guy. Or guys. He got instructions via email that bounced through so many servers, the IT department is still trying to untangle the mess," he replies, then gives me another suspicious look. "Swear to me that you had nothing to do with it."

"Do I strike you as the kind of man who needs to abduct innocent girls to get his point across?" I ask, sounding downright insulted. I know I've got a penthouse reserved in hell for this, but if we succeed, it'll be worth burning for an eternity. "No, Con, I had nothing to do with it. Honestly, I'm starting to think it's just a publicity stunt. For all we know, that girl could be chilling somewhere in Acapulco, waiting for her daddy to call her back home."

"Nah, he's genuinely distraught," Connor says. "The guy loves his daughter. His aides are terrified. He's constantly snapping. Barking orders. Firing anybody who doesn't deliver. He's furious and rattling every single cage until a shoe drops."

Good. I want him to be miserable, I think. It'll get him where we need him.

"So, what are they doing other than these occasional raids and stop-and-frisks, huh?" I ask Connor. He lets a heavy sigh roll from his chest, and I can tell that he's already tired.

"Man, what aren't they doing? They don't have enough people on the force, though. They're stretched too thin, and it'll come back to bite them in the ass. More than once, I suggested that they focus on the mayor's top five enemies, not all twelve—"

"That you know of," I cut him off. "The guy probably has more people itching to hurt him than that."

"Probably. The point is, they're wasting departmental resources," Con says. "And I don't think they're going to find Ariana David that way."

"What about the task force? How long before they get that rolling?"

He is about to answer when a call comes through his radio. He picks it up, and I overhear the dispatcher. "We've got a 10-55 at Chance and Hayward."

That's a dead body. A coroner's case. Connor sends over his response, and I instantly follow him since Chance and Hayward is literally just around the corner. My stomach is already churning with the kind of dread I haven't felt in a long time.

"Raylan, I have to take this," Connor says.

"Yeah, I know, I'm right here with you."

"You can't be, man," he snaps, but I'm still tailing him.

"I know that address. It's personal," I tell him.

He gives me a worried look. "What do you mean, personal?"

"I know two of the kids who live in that drug den. Chances are, you know them, too," I reply.

"My God, Raylan, what have you gotten yourself into?"

"No, it's not like that. They're the Sweet Mother of Mercy kids. I told you about them."

He nods slowly, his brow furrowed as we turn the corner. A squad car has already pulled up outside the old, rundown townhouse.

"How'd you track them back to this place?" Connor asks.

"It took me a while. They're both over eighteen, so it wasn't easy, but I found them. Been keeping an eye on the house since."

My heart stops for a moment as he pushes me back. "Stay here, Raylan. You can't be involved. I'll go and check."

The street seems deserted. At this hour, it usually is. While the elderly folks are out and about, the users sleep through most of the day. They'll be coming out as soon as the sun begins to set, like demons waiting for nightfall. Except they're not demons. They're people in a lot of pain, looking to quell that with whatever they can get their hands on. And this whole neighborhood is rife with dealers ready to serve.

I wait by the squad car, barely able to breathe, as I watch Connor and his colleagues go into the house. It's a known drug den. Users come here often, and many of them spend the night. The guy who owns it targets foster kids in particular, taking advantage of their situation to get them to deal for him. It's a lucrative business, and I know he's got at least a couple of beat cops on his payroll to make sure nobody raids his place.

That ends now. A dead body is precisely the kind of attention he doesn't want. He'll have to move his stash and his activities elsewhere. That's always the deal between the hood and the badge—at least, it is in Everton. As long as it doesn't get on the radar, it doesn't exist, and therefore it can go on.

The ME's van pulls up. It's black and grim, prompting my entrails to twist and turn as they bring out a gurney, complete with a black bag. It's definitely a dead body.

Connor comes back out with a dark look on his face. He holds up a driver's license for me to look at. "Do you know him?"

"Shit," I mutter. As soon as I see his face in the DMV-issued photo, my stomach drops. "Yeah. Kyle Johnson. He's nineteen. He's one of the kids I was keeping an eye on. Bang-up job on my part."

"It's not your fault, Raylan. He overdosed."

"He's gone, isn't he?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry. He's been dead for at least a few hours."

I glance back at the house, watching as the officers bring out two other young adults, looking equally disheveled and confused. A man and a woman, both in their early twenties, filthy and in visible pain. "Where's the other one?" I ask Connor. "Manny. He should've been with them."

"It's just the two," he says. "The girl called 911. The guy was still sleeping when we went in."

My blood is boiling. I failed the Sweet Mother of Mercy kids the minute I let the local council take over the orphanage. "Those motherfuckers promised they'd build a community center," I hiss, a mental image of Kyle settling before my eyes. They haven't taken him out of the house yet, but the view is all too familiar. So many of them end up like this—in the streets or in drug dens, shot or OD'd—miserable and forgotten by everyone, including the system that was supposed to make sure they didn't land back in the streets. "They built a residential complex to gentrify the fucking neighborhood, Connor. Kyle, Manny, the others … they had nowhere to go."

"You can't save them all, Raylan," my friend says while instructions keep pouring in through his radio. "You did everything that you could. Listen, I'll try to track down Manny for you."

"Please do. I'll text you every detail I have on him. Maybe we can get him out before it's too late."

"Don't hold your breath," Connor warns me. "It is what it is."

"What about the guy who owns this house?" I ask, eager to crack somebody's skull for what happened to Kyle. Somebody needs to be held responsible, and I can't exactly go after Henry David. Not yet, anyway. We're letting him stew in his own juices for a little while longer.

"No trace of him yet," Connor says. Another squad car comes in, and my friend starts to look worried. "I need you to get out of here, Raylan."

"Yeah. Just keep me posted," I reply and promptly turn away.

My very soul is shattered as guilt burns through me. If only I had done more … but what exactly could I have done? Henry David was one of the councilors in charge of the Sweet Mother of Mercy project at the time. I asked him; I fucking begged him to stay true to his word. He looked me in the eyes and promised that he'd divert funds to build a community center so the kids would at least have a stable place to come back to every day, no matter where they ended up living.

And then he got the city council to approve a sale. A corporation outside of Motor City came in and bought the whole lot, tearing the building down and raising a whole residential complex for incoming middle-class yuppies who needed new homes in Everton. With the mall and more offices opening up in the area, it made sense.

At least, that's what Henry David said at the time.

The man did not keep his word, and I know he made a pretty penny on the sale commission. He was elected mayor not long afterward. What is happening now is yet another repercussion of his corruption and mismanagement of the whole fucking city. Innocent kids are ending up on the coroner's slab because Henry David didn't give a shit about anything other than money and influence.

He's going to pay for this.