Chapter 6 #2
“Oddly enough, no,” Harding said. “Same last name, same taste for candy, same idea to run dogfights out of Red Hook. Kent is muscle, Colin is greed. I don’t know which one is brains, because so far we haven’t seen a damned thing about them that’s smart.”
“What are they wanted for?” Crosby asked. “Besides being garbage humans. Because dogfighting is the fucking worst.”
A little more of Joey’s frozen black wolf’s heart melted at that. Of course Crosby would champion dogs.
“They are wanted for the disappearance of this man,” Clint said, tapping on his tablet.
The screen flashed, and the image of the Gleeson brothers was replaced with a picture of a rather sweet-faced middle-aged man wearing a tweed suit and carrying a small white Chihuahua.
“This is Tad Spencer. His dog, Carl, was, well, sort of the terror of their Haworth, New Jersey, neighborhood. According to police sources, Carl was under quarantine for biting a woman at the dog park when he disappeared. The enclosure in the back was totally secure. The only way the dog could have escaped is if he had help.”
“Wait,” Joey said, not sure if Harding was having him on or not. “The, uh, Gleeson brothers kidnapped a Chihuahua for dog fights?”
Harding grunted. “Apparently the little-dog fights are some of the most brutal. I guess the story spread—the woman who was bitten was a social-media influencer, and Carl gained some notoriety. Mr. Spencer went looking for him, and after asking around, told his husband he was going to Red Hook to get his dog back. When he didn’t return that night, the husband called the FBI. ”
“And they turned it over to us because…?” Pearson asked. “I mean, who has jurisdiction with this sort of thing?”
“These days? Who knows,” Harding grunted.
“Which is why the ASAC kicked it over to us.” He let out a long breath.
“Seemed to think it was amusing. Deavers, the ASAC, called the gambling commission, and Jay Arnold apparently brought her attention to the whole thing, so he was willing to send us backup, which is both human of him but also a copout. It’s like he doesn’t want to be seen handling this mess.
But these guys are dangerous. Anybody who will torture a dog to make him vicious will have no problem assaulting a human being.
Spencer and Carl disappeared yesterday, and the fights start in a few hours.
We have a limited amount of time here to save the dog, and nobody laugh but—”
“I mean, poor little guy,” Crosby said, sounding distressed.
Fuck. Joey was really going to have to let go of his grudge, wasn’t he?
“Yeah,” Harding said with a sigh. “I don’t know the odds of him being alive, but, you know, it would be nice.”
“Well, if he’s being used as a star attraction for the preliminary rounds,” Chadwick said, the only one in the room not losing their minds over the tiny dog, “we should be able to get to him. And I would imagine Tad Spencer is simply going to be held until the fight is over and then released after his dog is dead.”
“Released? Not killed?” Harding asked.
“Possible,” Chadwick admitted, nodding. “Because dog fighting is big business. If they attract a big enough crowd with a celebrity hound, and the owner gets disappeared, we could have a real problem.”
“These men are frequently spotted carrying weapons,” Harding said, flashing more pictures of the two men going about their day with the butts of large pistols showing in the backs of their jeans. “The weapons are registered, but they’re obviously used for intimidation.”
“I take it we don’t have enough for a warrant,” Natalia said thoughtfully. “Otherwise the gambling commission would take this over.”
“Pure speculation,” Clint confirmed. “Obviously the brothers are under surveillance, but nobody has spotted Spencer or his dog.”
“Do we have a list of their properties?” Kylie asked, her own laptop in front of her.
Harding paused to forward those to her and then straightened. “And while she’s doing that, we should take a look at their, uhm, employees.”
“Henchmen?” Chadwick supplied coyly.
“Flunkies,” Pearson suggested.
“Minions?” Crosby asked, and Joey rubbed the back of his neck.
Goddammit. He was funny too.
“Known associates,” Harding told them, trying to be stern. “And here we go. It’s a rogue’s gallery, as you have all guessed.”
Harding gave them the run-through of who might be expected to pop up with a gun, and about the time he wrapped up, Kylie chimed brightly, “And here we go! Here’s the winner of the ‘Where’s the dog fight going to be tonight?’ contest!”
“The Gleesons own—or squat in—a couple of properties out in the warehouse district of Red Hook,” Kylie continued.
“But this is their biggest.” She put up an overview of a property lot, one with a big building that, if hollowed out and filled with bleachers, would be a good stage for a fight.
And three outbuildings that would be great places to house animals starved and beaten to the point of madness.
“Why’s this the winner?” Crosby asked.
“There’s two others,” Kylie said. “One of them just had all its buildings knocked down—” She flashed a slide of a bunch of demolished construction materials. “—and the other was the site of a bust three months ago.” And there was a nice press shot of the two brothers being led away in handcuffs.
“Wait,” Joey said. “What are they doing out if they just got busted?”
“Bail,” Harding said grimly. “Dogfighting isn’t legal, but it’s not necessarily a high arrest priority either.”
“But if they kidnapped a guy…,” Chadwick murmured, and he and Harding locked gazes and nodded.
“What?” Joey demanded. “What? What are you thinking about that we don’t know?”
“Why we got the case,” Natalia said with disgust. “Politics.”
“I don’t understand.” Oh hell. Even Crosby looked like he got it, and now Joey hated him all over again.
“It’s not a high-profile crime,” Gail explained patiently.
“But Harding’s superiors hate it as much as we do.
So they gave it to us when they’d been told to sweep it under the table.
So if shit goes bad, we get the blame, but if we make a positive bust and save the poor dumb dog owner and maybe even the poor dumb dog… .”
“The FBI and the gambling commission get the credit,” Joey said slowly. “Oh. Oh hell. Jesus, this is stupid. Can’t we just shoot those assholes?”
“Sure,” Chadwick told him soothingly. “But only if they’re aiming a gun at us.”
“What do we do?” Carlyle asked. “Serve them a warrant?”
“We don’t have one to serve,” Harding said. “But we do have a warrant for surveillance and covert search.”
Denison whistled. “Who did you have to blow to get a covert-search warrant?”
Joey expected the world to stop and a record player somewhere to scratch to a halt, but Harding merely snorted.
“The list is long and distinguished and classified. But we got it, so we’re gonna use it.
And since we’ve got ourselves a couple of stealth operative specialists, I’m gonna use them. Carlyle? Pearson? You guys game?”
“Wire us up, Chief,” Pearson said, grinning. “What’s the uniform? Camo?”
Harding shook his head. “Urban variety. You two get scruffy, dirty up your faces a little. Pearson, find a stocking cap and tuck that shiny gold hair up, darlin’. I’ll be up top for on-site overwatch. Kylie,” he grunted. “Normally, I’d like Crosby up there with a long-range weapon, but see that?”
“Oh shit,” Chadwick said. “Is that really a rec center?”
“Yup—not three hundred yards from the back fence. Sorry, Crosby.”
“No worries, Chief,” Crosby said. “You don’t fire a gun unless you know what’s going to be behind your target. Too many friendlies there for something that can go fifteen hundred yards.”
“Yup,” Harding said. “So I’m doing overwatch, you and Chadwick do backup, Carlyle goes east, Pearson goes west. Tal, where do you see a hole?”
“Rec center side,” she said promptly. “If there’s dogs loose, guys, that’s a danger. I’ll filter along back there. When we going, Clint?”
“Weapons check in five,” he said. “Everybody, suit up.”
The SCTF tactical gear requirements were very tailored to the operative—with the exception of vests, which Joey and Gail put under their baggy T-shirts.
Pearson preferred knives and one small gun which she wore in a side holster, and Joey was pretty much on board with that.
They could move silently, both of them wearing oversized street clothes, frayed and yellowed with too much washing and too much hard use.
Gail took Harding’s advice and tucked her hair under a hat, and Carlyle used another—frayed and unraveling—to hide his raven’s-wing black hair, which shone when clean, and then went for some pale, loose cosmetic powder to make his complexion lighter and added little patches of eyeliner rubbed into his skin to dirty it up.
He was in the middle of doing that, using the mirror in his locker to check his work, when Chadwick blew out a sigh and pushed him aside by virtue of a bony hip.
“Turn around,” he grumbled. “Here.” He grabbed the makeup from Joey’s hand and, using a sponge he’d produced out of nowhere, started blotting the eyeliner. “It looks like a high school play. Subtlety here, Carlyle. Subtlety.”
Joey was trying to think of something—anything—to retort with, but he found his breath had seized. Wide-eyed, he stared at Chadwick’s once-ordinary hazel eyes and tried to remember how to push oxygen in and out of his lungs. Maybe even through his vocal cords; he understood that was cool.
Chadwick’s features—always lean and hatchet thin—were suddenly… warm. Close. Touchable.
Attractive.
From fucking nowhere. Six months of working together, and suddenly Joey noticed that he was working with an attractive, beddable, fuckable man.
The realization was both humbling and exciting, and Joey couldn’t decide which dominated.
Gideon… fuck, Chadwick, was searching his work for a flaw, and suddenly he caught the direction of Joey’s gaze.