Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Asher guided the motorcycle through the darkness, its headlight cutting a narrow path through the wet night.
The roads gleamed like mirrors, reflecting what little light existed, making it nearly impossible to distinguish between asphalt and standing water.
He kept their speed painfully slow, every muscle tense as he navigated the treacherous conditions.
Behind him, Cici’s arms tightened around his waist each time they hit a patch of standing water or when the bike’s tires struggled for purchase on the slick pavement. The rain had finally stopped, but its aftermath made the ride almost as dangerous.
Though less dangerous than being holed up in a cabin with Cici.
He always said too much when he was with her, always revealed too much about himself.
She made it easy to talk, and unlike the cruel prom queen who still lived in his head, today’s Cici was kind and generous, never judgmental and always looking at him with that…
that fully invested expression, as if every word he spoke mattered to her.
She was not who he’d built her up in his mind to be. She wasn’t cruel, and sure, she’d been prom queen, but that was because she’d been admired by so many people. Because she’d been kind, even back then, except for that one ugly moment.
And he was falling for her all over again. He’d call himself a fool, except who wouldn’t fall for her? She was exactly the kind of woman he dreamed of building a life with someday.
When he completed his assignment, he’d deliver her to Ballentine and her family, and then…
and then he’d figure it out. Because Cici had become the spectacular woman he’d known, instinctively, back in high school, that she would be.
And if she’d consider someone like him, then he’d be a fool not to pursue her.
They were almost there. By his calculations, they were an hour from Portland, maybe an hour and a half from Shadow Cove. So close. But his stomach cramped with hunger, and his shoulders ached.
As they rounded a sharp curve, the bike’s headlight illuminated a small, weathered sign that read “Millerville.” The faded lettering promised gas and food, exactly what they needed.
“There’s a town ahead,” he called over his shoulder. “We should stop.”
He expected an argument—she always seemed to have an opinion—but her only response was “Okay.”
As Asher guided the motorcycle down the winding road toward the distant glow of civilization, he felt a rush of relief.
Millerville turned out to be little more than a crossroads with a few buildings clustered around it.
They passed a fast-food restaurant. Right beyond that, the gas station’s fluorescent lights cast an eerie blue-white glow over the wet pavement and deserted gas pumps. Asher pulled in and cut the engine.
“Thank God,” Cici murmured as she dismounted. She peeled off her helmet and shook out her hair, a wavy mass of strawberry blond that, even after hours matted to her head, still managed to look good.
Asher surveyed the gas station with its dim interior lights. “Let’s fill up and use the restroom.”
“I need to stretch anyway.” She did, raising her hands and arching like a kitten.
He looked away. He needed to keep his focus on the task, not on the too-distracting woman who had no idea how she affected him.
While Asher filled the tank, Cici headed inside.
He watched her through the window as she spoke to a clerk, who pointed toward the back of the store.
When she disappeared from view, Asher scanned their surroundings, the habit so ingrained he hardly realized he was doing it.
The road remained empty, only puddles reflecting the station’s harsh lights.
Once the tank was full, he pushed the bike to a parking spot and followed her inside.
When he emerged from the bathroom, Cici was waiting by the door.
“There’s food next door,” he said as they stepped outside in the cool evening. The thought of fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy had his stomach growling. “We should grab something.”
Cici glanced at her watch. “We’re so close. We had lunch—”
“Hours ago.”
Her lips pursed. “Couldn’t we just push through?”
Maybe she could, but he was the one behind the wheel. “I can’t drive safely if I’m running on empty. And I can’t exactly munch a snack while we’re on the road.”
She looked between him and the restaurant, then sighed. “Twenty minutes won’t make much difference at this point.”
They dashed across the parking lot, hunched against the drizzle that had started up again.
Though cars snaked around the restaurant for the drive-through line, the dining room was nearly empty—just an older couple in one booth.
The fluorescent lighting made Cici’s skin look pale, the shadows under her eyes more pronounced. She needed rest. They both did.
They ordered quickly—fried chicken and all the fixings for him, a grilled chicken sandwich for her. They filled their cups with ice and soda.
“Smells like heaven in a cardboard box.” Asher slid into a booth in the corner, where he could keep an eye on the door. They unwrapped their food, and he took a bite that had him moaning with satisfaction. What was it about fast-food fried chicken that tasted so good?
Lard, probably, but he wasn’t going to worry about that.
Cici removed pickles with the very tips of her fingers, as if just touching them turned her stomach, then nibbled the edge of her sandwich. “Should we check in with Alyssa? See what she’s learned?”
“Good idea.” He pulled out a burner phone and handed it over.
Cici dialed her sister and put the call on speaker before setting the phone between them.
“Glad you called,” Alyssa answered. “I was starting to worry.”
“We’re getting close,” Cici said. “Did you learn anything new?”
Asher was happy to let Cici direct the conversation, eating his dinner as quickly as possible so they could get back on the road.
“Actually, yes.” Keys clicked rapidly in the background. “I managed to identify two of the other men who tracked you down near the airfield. I found traffic cam footage from when they passed through town.”
“Were there more?”
“There’s a guy in the backseat of the sedan. Looks like a big guy, bearded, but I can’t get enough of his face to ID.”
Cici met Asher’s eyes. “Could be the guy you fought with.”
“The linebacker you took out.”
“Wait,” Alyssa said. “Cici took him out?”
“The guy’s head was a fast ball over the plate, and your sister hit it like Big Papi in the ninth.”
Cici shook her head. “Not exactly.”
“Nice,” Alyssa said.
“Anyway…” Asher wiped his greasy fingers. “Names?”
“Mendez. Like Souza, he’s connected to the Fourth Hood in New York. Sending a photo.”
The phone dinged. Cici looked, then showed it to him. It was Pretty Boy, the one Asher had put in a sleeper hold.
“The third guy, though, that’s where it gets interesting. His name is Dominic Falcone, and he runs with a completely different crew out of Boston. They call themselves the Northside Kings.”
He looked at the photo. This one had a couple of face tattoos that didn’t hide the acne scars.
“I’ve heard of them,” Asher said. “They focus on illegal drugs, right? How are they connected to the Fourth Hood? Aren’t they into human trafficking and prostitution?”
“According to law enforcement,” Alyssa said, “not only are they not connected, they’re rivals.” Asher didn’t know Alyssa at all. Even so, it was easy to tell by the tone of her voice that she was saving the juiciest news. “On paper, there’s no connection between them.”
“Gagnon.” Cici spoke the obvious—and the most important piece of the puzzle. “He’s the connection. Somehow.”
“Exactly,” Alyssa said. “I’m sending you a photo of Maxwell Pierce, the Fourth Hood’s suspected ringleader.”
The phone vibrated with an incoming text, and Cici navigated to look at it, then angled it for Asher to see the guy.
Clean-cut, perfect smile, expensive suit.
Nothing about him screamed “gang leader” or “human trafficker.” Rich guy with rich-guy resources, exactly the kind of person Asher didn’t trust.
Cici’s remarks earlier about pegging all rich people—or poor people—had him amending his first thought. He tended not to trust rich people, but that was his problem, not theirs.
Alyssa continued. “He presents himself as this champion of urban renewal while running one of the most vicious trafficking operations on the East Coast.”
Asher angled toward the phone. “I’m guessing you’ve figured out how he’s connected to Gagnon?”
“Pierce has been paying him like clockwork. A hundred thousand every quarter since 2020. The payments go through shell companies and end up in an offshore account that belongs to Gagnon. It’s pretty impressive the way he’s covered his tracks.”
Asher did the math. “That’s two million dollars.”
“And counting,” Alyssa said.
Cici pushed her sandwich away. “I’m guessing Gagnon found proof of Pierce’s involvement in the human trafficking ring that law enforcement couldn’t find, and rather than turn the guy in, he’s using it for profit.”
Asher fought to control his facial expression, though his smirk wanted out. “The guy’s a murderer, Cici. Don’t tell me you’re surprised.”
“You’d think selling little girls into prostitution might be a line even someone like Gagnon wouldn’t cross.”
The problem was, once people started operating on the wrong side of the law—and the moral good—that line became harder and harder to see.
Asher had gone up against terrorists who adored their own families but didn’t hesitate to kill innocent children in order to further their own political—or financial—ends.
Gagnon was no different from the worst of the worst—and Asher had met his share.
“So he’s blackmailing Pierce.” Asher directed his words to the phone. “He must be doing the same thing with the Boston guy—Falcone’s boss.”
“Haven’t proved it yet, but that’s my theory.”