49
ANSON
We locked the car for no reason other than habit.
In a neighborhood like this, leaving a car unlocked was the better move because it would prevent a broken window.
Aside from Paul’s sketchpad, there was nothing worth stealing, so I supposed it didn’t matter.
If someone tried to steal the car with the doors locked, at least we’d hear them break the window and possibly get back in time to stop them.
None of us wanted to walk back to the Quick from here.
For a large guy, Vincent moved with stealth.
He followed the walls and stuck to the shadows, carefully planting his feet to avoid stepping on anything that might make noise.
I followed closely behind him with Paul at my back.
We saw no homeless here, and that surprised me.
It was quiet with plenty of empty buildings.
I supposed we were too far from the tourists, which meant we were too far from the money, making this part of town impractical for squatting, grifting, or those who sought income from less traditional methods over employment.
Your mind is wandering again, Champ. Probably best you stay on point.
Situation like this. Give the air a good sniff—that’s how I do it.
Run through all your senses—smell your surroundings, listen, touch the nearest wall, take a quick look around, but don’t lose focus on where you’re going.
Eyes front when moving. Take in your surroundings when you’re not.
Trust your instincts. Tap the animal in you; it’s your strongest sense.
The air was chilly and smelled of the harbor.
Low tide. Dead fish, seaweed, and stagnant water.
Oil and exhaust nearby, too. Cargo vessels.
Tankers. Old trucks. Brushing the brick of the wall on my right prickled at my fingertips, and that made me feel alive.
Heightened all my senses. I wouldn’t give Father the satisfaction of telling him he was right, but he was.
Vincent’s arm shot out. Stopped me in my tracks. He pointed.
I pressed against the wall and followed his finger.
The white van was visible between the two buildings in front of us. A black Mercedes sedan had pulled up beside it. Hillburn stood between both vehicles with three other men, his navy trench coat flapping gently in the breeze coming off the nearby harbor.
“I can’t hear them,” Paul said. “Can you?”
I shook my head. “We need to get closer.”
Vincent reached behind his back and pulled the gun from the waistband of his jeans. He pointed at a dumpster midway down the alley. “Head for that. Stay low and hug the wall. Don’t make a fucking sound.”
Then he was gone.
Paul and I followed.
We dropped beside him when we reached the dumpster.
Close now.
“. . . short on our quota,” one of the men said. “The bossman wants at least nine more girls and five boys. No younger than twelve. No older than fifteen.”
“Because it’s that easy, right?” Hillburn groaned. “Like I can just head down to the grocery store and place an order at the deli counter?”
The first man threw up his hands. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”
A short, stocky man to their left lit up a cigarette and let out a soft snicker. “Maybe you shouldn’ta got your ass handed to you by a bunch of kids.”
“That was Welderman and Stocks’s fuck up, not mine,” Hillburn fired back.
“Think that matters?” The stocky man shrugged.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret. Right before the bossman told us to tell you he wants nine and five, we spent a good thirty minutes trying to decide if we should just put a cap in you and shut you down completely instead.
The kinda heat you brought with that mess?
You should be six feet deep right now. I got half a mind to shoot you anyway and tell the bossman you drew first, gave us no choice.
You think these guys would say otherwise?
” He snickered. “Your amateur bullshit put us all at risk.”
The third guy bobbed his bald head and reached a hand into his jacket. “I’m on board with that. Fuck this guy.”
Hillburn didn’t back down. Didn’t even flinch. “I got four sharpshooters out here with me. SWAT guys. Best in the state. They see any of you draw and they’ll put you down before you get the chance to piss your pants.”
The stocky guy and the other man looked around—studied the windows and rooftops. The first guy did not. He took a step closer to Hillburn and jabbed him in the chest with a long, pointy finger. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. You’re too fucking cheap to divide your take into that many hands.”
Hillburn went quiet for a moment, then let out a slow, resigned breath. “Where am I supposed to get fourteen more?”
“I don’t care if you drive down the fucking street hanging out the window with a fistful of candy.
Just get them. You show up at Guyon with any less than fourteen, you ain’t walking out.
You don’t show up at Guyon . . .” He let the words linger a second before pointing at the bald man with his thumb.
“. . . and I let Stevie here chop you up into little bits.”
“You kill me and you get nothing.”
The bald man he called Stevie took a step closer, narrowing his eyes. “We kill you and someone else steps up to take your place. You think you matter? I’ve forgotten more men like you than you’ll know in a lifetime. Fucking dirty cops,” he muttered. “More of you than rats in most cities.”
The lines of Hillburn’s face hardened with frustration. “If he wants fourteen more, he needs to clear me to hit the Quick.”
This quieted all three men.
The stocky one was first to speak. “You know he won’t do that.”
“One sweep. I can get fourteen. Hell, I can get twenty. Maybe more.”
“That’s a non-starter. He ain’t gonna sanction a run at the Quick. No way.”
“There’s a hundred or more living in that shit hole. Completely off radar. Nobody looking for them. Nobody to care if they disappear. Hell, we’d be doing the city a favor.”
The stocky man was shaking his head. “You need to get that idea out of your skull. Go out of town if you need to. Maybe take a trip into the city. Hit some bus stops. You know where to find them.”
Hillburn was shaking his head. “If he wants them by Guyon, I don’t have that kind of time. Places like that are good for one, maybe two. No way I can get fourteen. Where the hell would I even put them? You gonna help?”
Stocky Man held up his hands. “Not our problem. We ain’t no babysitter service.”
The bald one he called Stevie let out a sharp laugh.
“Why don’t you run your modeling agency scam again?
What did the ad for that one say? ‘Beautiful girls wanted for high-end fashion campaign’ or some bullshit?
‘Travel, clothing, and luxury accommodations included?’ That one cracked me up.
I got your luxury accommodations.” He nudged the stocky man in the shoulder. “Remember that one?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Stocky Man told him flatly. “Ain’t nobody talking to you.”
Hillburn didn’t appear to be listening to either of them; he was too busy thinking. “He wants fourteen, tell him I need to hit the Quick. There’s no other way. We do it tomorrow night. Maybe even the morning of the twenty-ninth. Fast and surgical. Grab as many as we can and head straight to Guyon.”
“He won’t—”
It was Hillburn’s turn to jab a finger in the other man’s chest. “You know I’m right. Convince him.”
Steve ran a hand over his smooth skull. “He’s got a point. You round them up, get ‘em in trucks, and you’re there in half a day. Don’t need to feed them. They can piss in buckets. We move ‘em like the ones we’re bringing up from down south. It’s not a half-bad idea.”
Hillburn kept his eyes on the stocky man. “Convince him,” he said again. “And I’ll deliver.”
After several moments of silence, Stocky Man changed the subject. “How’s your partner?”
Hillburn let out a low sigh. “Recuperating. Slowly. He’ll be alright.”
There were nods all around. Nothing else was said.
Stocky Man dropped what was left of his cigarette and ground it out under his shoe, then turned and climbed into the Mercedes with the other men behind him. Hillburn remained still and watched them drive off.
“Come on,” Vincent whispered. “We need to get back to the Quick.”