19. Wesley
WESLEY
There’s always one.
The others scatter when Chief shows up, bursting through the back of the shop and heading straight for the front exit with police riot gear no camera can take a picture through.
She plows through the line of paparazzi who don’t wisely get out of her way.
Then Huck growls from behind the scattered assholes, and the smart ones scramble away.
They flinch, they curse, they back off toward their sedans with the heavy lenses and already-written captions.
You can spot the real vultures by the speed they disappear when it stops being worth the shot.
But not this guy. He’s across the street. Doesn’t even bother to pretend he was there for the ice cream. He just watches Bailey through the glass like he already knows what she’s going to do. And that’s what sets me off.
Because this guy? He’s not reacting to the moment.
He’s waiting.
He’s not dressed like the others either. No media lanyard. No branded hat. Just a black hoodie, jeans, boots that cost more than mine, and an old Canon DSLR that’s been spray-painted matte black. Tactical, not casual.
I log his face. Blond beard. Small frame. Twitchy fingers, steady lens.
He takes one last photo—through the window, even after Sean moves to block the angle—and then he disappears down the alley beside the florist like he’s done it a thousand times before.
I let the rest of the team handle the crowd. I follow him.
The alley’s narrow, littered with takeout boxes and the stink of day-old coffee grounds. I trail the guy silently, matching his pace, staying just out of reach. I let him think he lost me. He takes a left into a side lot, lowers his camera, and checks his phone.
That’s when I close the distance. I slide up behind him fast, grab the strap of the camera, and yank. He whirls around, fists up.
When he swings, I catch his fist and crush. “Don’t bother. You picked the wrong fucking woman to tail.”
He tries to pull his hand from mine and gives up fast. “What do you want?”
“You got a name?”
He doesn’t answer.
I step in closer, shoving him against the brick wall in the dark alley. “You’re not paparazzi.”
He stays quiet.
“You’re not freelance either. That’s a security-grade lens. Customized body. Civilian paparazzi don’t usually mod out their own Canons.”
Still nothing.
I take a wild guess. “You work for David?”
That gets a flicker in his eyes.
“You were sent to watch her.”
His jaw ticks.
“You took the photos at the house.”
No answer. That’s enough for me. I grab him by the collar and slam him against the side of the alley wall. Not hard. Just enough to let him know I’m done being polite. “You’re coming with me.”
And this time, he flinches. But the guy doesn’t struggle when I zip-tie his wrists.
That tells me everything I need to know.
He knew this was a possibility. Which means this wasn’t just a solo op.
This was planned. Backed. Funded. And David’s name sits at the top of my mental suspect board in thick, red Sharpie.
I shove him down against the asphalt, one knee between his shoulder blades while I pull a hood from my jacket pocket. Black canvas. Light-blocking.
“You can tell me who you work for, or you can wear this hood and learn where no one hears you scream.”
He doesn’t answer.
So I slip the hood over his head. “You want to stay quiet? You won’t for long.” I tap my earpiece. “Chief. I need a pickup. Back alley off Ventura. Quiet.”
“On it,” she replies instantly. “ETA four.”
I call Huck next. “Got one.”
“You need backup?”
“Yeah. It’s gonna get bloody.” Let this asshole hear me say it. I want him to know what’s coming. If you make your money by terrorizing women and children, you deserve to shake in your boots, bare minimum.
“Sounds like a party.”
By the time Chief arrives, I’ve already dragged the guy to the corner and positioned him behind a dumpster. He’s silent. Breathing a little heavier. Probably wondering where we’re taking him and what we’ll do when we get there.
Huck shows up in Chief’s black cargo van that we don’t put on any official paperwork. No plates that trace back to us. Lined interior. No windows. It’s not for show. It’s for results.
We don’t speak. We lift him in, zip-tied and hooded, and slam the doors shut behind him. Chief climbs into the front. Huck rides in the back with me. I glance at my phone as we pull away.
One text from Sean: Taking Bailey and Maeve home. Keep me posted.
I text back: We’ve got him. We’ll make him talk.
Our interrogation space is a shipping container at the docks.
But it’s tricked out to look like it could be in an office.
The guy’s sitting on a metal chair in the center of the room—wrists still zip-tied, hood still on, ankles restrained just loose enough that he could try to run, if he were that stupid.
He’s not.
The room has one exit, one vent, and no windows. The only light is overhead, bright and white and angled just enough to make him squint the second we rip the hood off.
Huck cracks his knuckles beside me and looks at the hooded figure. “Would you like to get started, you piece of shit?”
Chief stays outside the door, guarding. Huck’s standing in front of him. Hands folded. Expression calm. Like a butcher right before the cut.
The guy squints up at us. “You can’t hold me like this.”
Huck tilts his head. “Pretty sure we are.”
“I’ve got rights?—”
“We’re not cops,” I interrupt. “You’re not under arrest. You’re under review. ”
He says nothing. So I nod at Huck.
It starts small. A light punch to the stomach. Enough to wind him, not break him. Just a message.
“Who paid you?” I ask.
No answer.
Huck’s next hit lands harder. Gut again. The guy wheezes, doubles forward.
“Who?” I ask.
He spits on the floor. So Huck hits him in the ribs.
“Let me rephrase,” I say, crouching beside him.
“You took photos of Bailey Beausoleil. You stalked her. You got close to her underage daughter . And now you’re in a private facility, off- grid, without your gear or your backup.
There are all kinds of ways we can play this, and unless you cooperate, none of them go well for you. ”
Still no answer.
I sigh. “Man, I really didn’t want to break fingers tonight, but I make exceptions for exceptional assholes.”
Huck cracks his knuckles.
And the guy finally speaks. “He hired me,” he coughs.
I stand. “Who?”
“I work for Oswalt.”
My stomach goes cold. “Say it again.”
“I was hired by David Oswalt. To follow her around. To take surveillance shots. Inside and outside her property.”
“Alone?”
“I don’t know who else he hired. I was told to monitor from a distance.”
And something in me locks into place. Because now it’s official. Now it’s war.
I step out of the quiet room, shut the steel door behind me, and exhale. Whatever Huck does to him, I don’t fucking care. We got that confession recorded.
Chief’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, stone-faced. “Well?”
“David paid him. Surveillance, long lens, full instruction. He’s the one who took the pictures.”
She doesn’t look surprised. Her jaw flexes. “I want a swing on him.”
“I’m not stopping you.”
She nods her gratitude once, then slips inside. Chief has a thing about men who hurt women and girls. We all do, but it’s more personal for her. I won’t stand in her way.
I open my phone and type one line to Sean: David paid him. He admitted it.
It takes ten seconds before the reply comes back: Understood. What are you thinking?
I stare at the screen for a long moment before I answer.
Because I’m not just thinking. I’m planning.
I’m lining up pressure points. Public, private.
Legal, digital. I’m drafting strategies like code—efficient, silent, lethal.
David wants to play dirty? We’ve got dirt.
He wants to be clever? We’re ten steps ahead.
So, I send back: He wanted a scandal. Let’s give him one—with his name on it this time.
Sean doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t need to. Because now we’re all on the same page. Behind me, Huck steps out of the room, wiping some blood from his knuckles with a towel.
“He still breathing?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “He’ll live. Probably. If she doesn’t finish him.”
Chief steps out a moment later, looking nonplussed and sharp. No blood. She doesn’t need to make them bleed to make them hurt.
I peek in past her shoulder. The bloodied man is sitting in a puddle of his own making. His shoulders are heaving. “Nice work, both of you.”
Chief smirks. It’s as close to a smile as she ever wears. “I’ll take care of him, if you two wanna get out of here.”
Whether she means he’ll see tomorrow or not, I’m not sure. “Get some pictures of what you two did. Put them on the dark web with David’s name on them. Let the underworld know what happens when you work with Oswalt. It’ll make it harder for him to hire anyone else.”
“Got it.” She disappears into the container, closing the door behind her.
“Think Sean will let me kill him yet?” Huck asks as we head for the van.
“No. But burying David alive in every possible logistical nightmare will be almost as satisfying.”
He grunts. “If you say so.”
“Huck, we’re going to ruin him. Let him live with the hell we will rain down on him. Death is too good for him. I want him to rot in this life for what he did to Bailey and his own daughter.”
To my surprise, Huck smiles at that. “And then we kill him, right?”
I sigh and pat his shoulder. It’s as big as my head. “After today, Bailey might let you.”