Chapter 3
Three
Nic swung his truck into a parking spot near the front entrance of Gravity Craft Brewery.
Five years ago, when his friend and SEAL teammate Eddie Vasquez transferred out of the Navy to the local Coast Guard unit, they’d tapped their savings, bought a couple of old warehouse buildings in Redwood City, and opened the microbrewery they’d dreamed about while stuck in the desert together.
It wasn’t easy working the equivalent of two full-time jobs, but Nic wouldn’t have his other job forever.
The writing was on the wall at the US Attorney’s Office.
He didn’t want it forever either or a similar job in private practice.
As much as he loved the courtroom, he’d started to itch for a different challenge.
In Gravity, he was building something with his teammate and friend, a future they could call their own.
Every hour Nic spent at the brewery, even the hours doing paperwork as Gravity’s business manager, were worth it.
For perhaps the first time since he’d stepped into the Navy enlistment office the day after high school graduation, Nic felt like he was taking control of his destiny again.
On his way to the door, he peered between the brewery buildings to the back lot where tonight’s band and food trucks were shutting down.
The music and variety of food options together with the hanging lights and electrical spools-turned-tables and barrels-turned-stools created a festive atmosphere that drew a steady crowd on weekends when they were open to the public.
One of Eddie’s more brilliant ideas.
He keyed in his access code, the electronic lock switching from red to green just as the hanging lights over the back lot darkened, leaving only the sodium lights glowing in the main lot behind him.
Slipping inside, Nic waited for the lock to reengage, then followed the wail of nineties grunge toward the expansive tasting area.
“Yo!” Eddie called from behind the bar.
Par for the course, Eddie’s black brewery tee was about to bust at the seams, the falling-apricot logo on the short sleeve peeling and cracking with each swipe he made over the bar top.
Eddie’s shirts had always been two sizes too small.
Just like his gravity-defying pompadour of jet-black hair had rarely deflated since he’d grown it back out.
Nic grabbed another bar towel and began wiping down the stools and pub tables around the tasting room. “Good crowd tonight?”
“Packed. Only a couple cases left of the imperial stout and the public stock of IPA is selling fast too. Few more weeks at most.”
More than half their award-winning IPA had already been committed to restaurants. The fast-moving other half was a good sign. “You brew a mean beer,” Nic said with a nod to his brewmaster.
“Damn right I do.” Eddie grinned, fist out for a bump. Nic returned it—top, bottom, then knuckles. “Didn’t think you’d make it in tonight.”
“Work thing,” Nic replied.
Eddie shot him a disapproving glare, and Nic shot him one back plus the middle finger. Eddie was the last person to give him shit for working too much. Gravity aside, Eddie’s Coast Guard hours, while more predictable than other service branches, were far from nine-to-five.
“Went tits up?” Eddie asked.
“That’s being generous.”
Whistling low, Eddie drew a pint of pilsner off the tap and passed it across the bar. “Guessin’ you need this, then.”
“No question there.”
As if the shoot-out, asshole boss, fretting CI, and apparent attempt on his life hadn’t been enough, Nic had spent hours filling out paperwork for rotating safe houses and rousing court clerks about rotating courtrooms. By the time he’d left the office once Tony radioed in that Abby was secure in tonight’s location, he’d angered more than just Bowers.
Taking a long draw of his favorite brew, Nic forgot about all that shit for a few heavenly seconds.
With a higher malt concentration than other pilsners, Gravity’s Alto Pils was less sweet and more spicy.
“A standout in its class,” according to Beer Advocate.
He took another swallow, savoring, before his happy sigh turned weary.
“And I’ve still got another call with the feds.” He needed to touch base with Cam and see if he’d gotten anywhere with Scott or Mike. He also needed to find out if Lauren had said anything to Cam about the shooter. Nic had sworn her to secrecy but technically her duty was to the FBI, not him.
He should have called Cam on the drive down from the city, but he’d taken the rare, traffic-free forty-five minutes for himself, enjoying the relative silence after an otherwise very loud day.
Eddie yanked Nic’s bunched-up bar towel out from under his fisted hand. “I stand by my earlier glare. You work too much.”
“Whatever you say, Pot.”
Chuckling, Eddie ran the towels over the bar once more, then tossed them into the laundry basket beneath the back bar. “Speaking of, I’m due at Alameda at oh-five-hundred.”
“Then what the fuck are you still doing here?”
He stretched out a hand to Nic, as if for a handshake. “Hi, Kettle, I’m Pot, nice to meet you,” he said with a brown-eyed wink.
Nic swatted his meaty paw away, laughing. “You know how long?”
“Captain thinks a couple weeks.”
Probably a drug interdiction matter then—chasing illegal drug vessels around the Pacific—which meant it would land on Nic’s desk eventually. “I’ll check the schedules. Make sure we’re covered here since I won’t be around much either. Trial.”
“Already done. Ang and Steph will hold down the fort.” They’d lucked out in the staff lottery, finding not one but two UC Davis grads who were talented apprentice brewers and competent assistant managers.
“Good deal.” Nic finished off his beer and handed the pint glass to Eddie, who rinsed and put it in the dishwasher.
“Owe the team a couple cases.” Eddie stepped out from behind the bar. “Help me load ’em?”
“Sure thing.” Nic shrugged out of his coat and tie, pushed up his shirtsleeves, and followed Eddie into the warehouse.
They carried two cases of Belmont Red Ale out to Eddie’s sand-crusted Wrangler, surfboards still stacked on top.
Nic liked the coast all right—had spent plenty of time there as a kid—and Eddie’s place in Half Moon Bay was great.
As nice as it was though, Nic could never live there.
Not in a place where sand in his shoes was a daily occurrence. Not again.
Eddie slammed the trunk shut, snapping Nic out of his thoughts. “How much longer you gonna be?” he asked.
“Need to make that call, then I’ll be on my way.” Nic followed him to the driver’s side, waited for Eddie to climb in, then held out his fist. “Don’t run to your death.”
Eddie bumped back. “Hooyah.”
Once Eddie’s taillights cleared the lot, Nic started back to the main building, pausing halfway when his phone vibrated.
Unknown lit up the screen.
“Nic Price,” he answered. Silence greeted him. “Hello, is anyone there?” Still nothing. “Who is this?”
A male voice answered but not from the phone. “I’d be more worried about who’s here than who’s on the phone,” he said from behind Nic.
One look over his shoulder and Nic spied a shiny-suited man rushing toward him.
The big guy wrapped his arms around him from behind, and though he’d gotten the jump on him, Nic thought someone was a fool for not telling this idiot who he was up against. Even without the KA-BAR and Beretta he’d left in his truck, Nic could take this guy.
Or maybe someone had warned the goon, because a second one came barreling out of the back lot, pistol aimed at Nic. “I’d stay still if I were you.”
“Why don’t you stay still for me?” Nic replied.
Using the big man behind him as a support post, Nic crossed his arms, grabbed the stranger’s biceps, and curled up with his abs, lifting his legs off the ground. One swift scissor kick and Goon Two’s weapon was gone.
Another swift kick to Goon Two’s blond head and he hit the pavement.
One threat neutralized, Nic swung his legs down with as much force as he could muster and used his momentum to flip Goon One over his back, laying him flat out next to his partner.
Nic plucked his sidearm free in the process, so by the time the two idiots staggered up, Nic had a pistol leveled on each.
The Silicon Valley version of “muscle,” their trainer-honed physiques were decked out in designer suits and Italian loafers, capped off with three-figure haircuts.
They looked like TV G-men, not real-life enforcers, but the weapons in Nic’s hands were very real and very high-powered.
Jacked as they were, the handguns were also highly illegal.
“Gentlemen.” Nic widened his stance. “You want to tell me who sent you here?”
The dark-haired one tried to skirt around Nic to the door. “Your father give you the money for this place?”
Nic blocked him. “Not a single goddamn dime.”
“If he did”—Goon One talked over him—“we’d have to take our cut. Your father’s debts are growing by the day.”
Nic schooled his features, more to hide his anger than any sort of surprise.
He’d heard the rumors floating around. His father, Curtis Price, was selling off his real estate holdings.
Most speculated he was cashing out, old age and a booming real estate market hastening the sell-off.
Nic knew better. One, cashing out for what?
Curtis sure as shit wasn’t putting the money away for him.
And two, his father never gave up control of anything unless he was forced to.
So now, whatever upside-down deal he’d made was blowing back on Nic.
“Wonder what this property would sell for?” Goon Two said. “I suspect the value might decline if something unfortunate were to happen. Alcohol burns fast, I hear.”
“Bet the insurance proceeds would be significant,” Goon One added.