Chapter Thirty-Two
Tank
Bianca falls asleep curled up against me, soft and warm and content. Her breath deepens, her body relaxes, surrendering to a trust that should weigh on me harder than it does. I wrap my arm around her, feeling that heart-beat of quiet between us, but my mind churns too much for sleep, each pulse a reminder of the mission at hand. She breathes “Caleb” as she drifts off, and I know I need to move.
I ease out of the bed, careful as a thief, and grab her phone from the nightstand. Every step away from her is a fight with myself. I know it’s a betrayal, cutting against the grain of what’s growing between us, but I’m not here to fall in love — not completely — I’m here on a mission. That’s what I keep telling myself, even as I scroll through her messages, her emails, all the intimate threads that weave her life. They reveal her struggle, a woman stretched thin trying to keep her commitments from unraveling, the typical stress of someone running an overworked charity. Nothing too suspicious.
Then I see it — a digital invoice and contract from Butter & Bliss Catering, with a logo that looks like a concussed recruit drew it using crayons during a mortar strike. They're the bakery signed on for tomorrow’s event.
My jaw ticks.
Bianca stirs a little. I hold my breath until hers returns to even.
It hurts to see some inferior bakery working this event. I want to tell myself I’m angry about the quality, about what it costs the charity to have some amateurs fumbling around her fundraiser. I want to tell myself I don’t care that she’s trusting others, relying on other hands to make things right. But it cuts deeper than that, and with the pain comes a clarity and resolve I hadn’t expected.
I pocket that bitter feeling, leave her a glass of water on the nightstand, and head out into the late moonlight. I am not here to fall in love. I’m here to get the job done.
Sticky Buns is alive with the smell of butter and sugar when I get back.
The scent wraps around me like a blanket, thick with promise and comfort, a far cry from the icy edge of doubt I left behind with Bianca. To my surprise, I see Ricky still hanging around behind the counter, his charm in full throttle as he works his magic on an old lady. She's nodding and laughing, a basket in hand loaded with three extra kouign-amann she probably never planned on buying. Typical Ricky, turning on the DeMarco charm full wattage to get the job done. This is way past closing time, and it should annoy me not to have a minute alone to think things through, but I can't help the tug of appreciation for the wiry bastard's hustle.
When she’s gone, he gives me a sheepish grin.
“Hope you don’t mind. Got on a roll.”
"Oh fuck, really?”
“Yeah, I thought up that one earlier and I’ve been waiting all day for you to get back so I could use it.” He smirks, knowing he’s got me.
“We should’ve closed hours ago. Why the fuck are you keeping us open so late?”
“Because you left me alone and people kept showing up and I was having a good time. I was… on a roll.”
“Well, you didn’t burn the place down. That’s already ahead of expectations.” I try to keep my voice gruff, but warmth sneaks in.
He laughs, a quick bright sound. “Even washed the trays.”
Pride sneaks up on me, unexpected and warm. “Good work,” I say.
He stares at me like I just handed him a fucking medal, disbelief and a cautious happiness in his eyes. "You know," he says, shaking his head like he can't quite fathom it, "a guy could get used to compliments around here."
I let the thought sit a moment before nodding toward the back. “I’m gonna go change,” I say, pulling off my overshirt, ready to get down to business.
Ricky raises an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because your time being responsible is over. We’ve got work to do.”
He squints, scratching the stubble on his cheek as if it'll help make sense of my words. “The hell does that mean?”
I give him a smirk, the kind that used to drive the guys in my old unit nuts. They’d always try to guess what impossible scheme I’d cooked up next. They were always wrong. I let the moment hang, knowing it’ll drive Ricky crazy. Then I drop the bomb. “It means we’re gonna blow up Butter & Bliss.”
Ricky stares. “Wait, what? Is the bakery game really that fucking ruthless? I’m trying to turn over a new leaf here, Tank. For Vanessa.”
I laugh. “Trust me. We do this right, and we make life better for everyone in Boise.”
He tilts his head. “I can’t imagine how reducing the city’s access to sweets does that, but... sure, whatever you say.”
I jerk a thumb toward the back room.
“Shut the hell up and come with me so I can show you how to build a bomb.”
“You can do that?”
I shake my head, sighing. “What the hell are they teaching kids in school these days?”
We head into the back, and I open a locked supply cabinet most people assume is full of flour. Inside there is homemade napalm gel, timers, copper wire, plastic jugs, and butane cartridges.
Ricky whistles low. “Jesus. This the flour you use in the croissants?”
We get to work. It’s quiet. Focused.
And by the time we’re done, we’ve got two small incendiary devices that will torch a kitchen but leave the surrounding buildings intact.
We roll out to the parking lot, get in my car, windows down, no music, tension coiled tight. We drive.
We pull up behind Butter & Bliss, climb the back fence, and plant the charges near their external propane tanks and wiring system.
We’re back in the car, down the road, when the first blast lights up the night.
The second one follows, a heartbeat later.
We don’t stop driving.
Ricky glances over. “So... what exactly did we just accomplish?”
I grin, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“In the morning, Bianca’s gonna call. Her dessert caterer just became a smoking pile of butter and glass.”
He stares at me.
“We’re gonna work that event,” I continue. “And when Moretti shows up to use it to launder his money... he’ll be vulnerable. No guns. No backup. Just a slick bastard in a suit playing nice with society. That’s when we end him.”
Ricky exhales, low and shaky. “You’re insane, man.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But I’m also a damn good baker and I’m going to have a big job to do tomorrow. So let’s get back to work.”
“More baking?”
“More baking. Come on, what’s the problem? I thought you were on a roll.”