Chapter Fourteen
Kane
Roth stayed dead.
Diaz did not.
The world kept turning, which felt rude.
Three days after we put Roth in the ground, the TV over the bar started talking about my war.
“… unnamed sources within the department say this operation is part of a larger investigation into suspected cartel-linked businesses in the metro area…”
I wiped circles behind the counter, my hand moving over the same clean patch of wood while a bottle of Jack waited at my elbow. Ten minutes of polishing had accomplished nothing except giving me something to do with my hands while my attention fixed on the screen.
On the screen, grainy footage played. Cop cars. Flashing lights. Yellow tape. A bar front I recognized even before the name scrolled along the bottom. Rusty Nail.
The picture jerked as the camera guy zoomed in. I watched officers move in and out. Box after box carried into vans. Faces blurred. Hands cuffed.
“One of the establishments raided today was this bar in the Riverfront district,” the reporter said. “Neighbors say they suspected drug activity for years. Federal agents declined to comment directly on the investigation but did say…”
Her voice faded under the rush in my ears.
Spade stood at the end of the bar, phone in hand, eyes on the screen. A hint of smug curled his mouth.
“Your handiwork?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Hanley’s,” he said. “I just gave him the thread. He did the rest.”
“Jason’s thread,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “And Jade’s.”
Atilla sat at a table nearby, coffee instead of beer in his hand, eyes narrow. “Any mention of Diaz’s name?” he asked.
Spade shook his head. “Not yet. They’ll call him a ‘high-level suspect’ if they mention him at all. The cops will hit his lieutenants first. Work their way up. Same as us.”
Marci leaned on the bar, spatula dangling from her fingers. “Feels weird seeing our work on the six o’clock news.”
I glanced past the TV screen. Jade sat at a corner table with Casey and two of the kids. A coloring book lay spread between them. Riley babbled about dragons and glitter while Jade listened with a smile. Her left hand gripped a crayon while her right rested on the table -- relaxed, unguarded.
I’d watched men get put in cuffs on TV before. Never while the woman I loved sat twenty feet away, one step removed from the whole chain of cause and effect.
“Think Diaz is watching?” I asked.
“If he’s got half a brain, he is,” Spade said.
Spade’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen, mouth twitching.
“Hanley again?” I asked.
“Just sent me a picture of the warrant they used,” Spade said. “Purely by coincidence, it includes three of the shell companies Roth confirmed. And one we found in Jason’s scribbles that nobody else tied to Diaz yet.”
“He trust you?” I asked.
“He trusts the anonymous tipster who keeps making his job easier,” Spade said. “That’s enough.”
I turned my attention back to the TV. The camera caught a woman at the edge of the tape. Snarled hair, mascara streaks, hoodie zipped to the throat. She yelled something at the cops.
One of the officers guided her back, hand gentle on her arm. She looked pissed and scared and small.
Not Jade.
Could have been.
My grip tightened on the rag.
“When we raid these operations, at least some girls find a way out,” Marci said. “Burning down establishments forces them to make choices they couldn’t before.”
“You think they will?” I asked.
“Some,” she said. “The rest can make their own decisions without Diaz’s hand on their neck. That counts.”
Jade’s laugh floated across the room. I let the sound anchor me.
Roth was dead. Victor was still breathing somewhere. Diaz sat on his rotten throne, probably watching the same footage from some expensive couch. He had no idea yet how many of the cracks running through his kingdom had our fingerprints on them.
Good.
Let him learn slow.
* * *
By the time the news cycle moved on to weather, most of the guys had drifted toward their usual corners. Pool. Cards. TV debate about something dumb.
I found Jade in the hall, headed toward the kitchen with empty cups in hand. “Hey.”
She looked up, smiled. “Hey yourself. You see the bar?”
“Yeah. You okay?”
She hesitated. “Felt strange, seeing the place on a screen, I kept thinking about the girls still working there.”
“Most will land somewhere. Some won’t. Diaz doesn’t have a corner market on assholes.”
Jade crossed her arms. “The real problem exists beyond Diaz. Take one man out, three more pop up.”
“Could be.” I leaned against the wall. “We pull this weed anyway. The yard stays cleaner for a while.”
She snorted and shook her head. “You and your gardening metaphors.”
“Would you prefer sports?” I asked. “Because I know you don’t watch baseball.”
“I absolutely do not.” Jade tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Jason tried to convert me once. I fell asleep during the third inning.”
“Wait till I tell Half Pint. Your confession will crush her soul.”
She bumped my arm with her shoulder. “You deliver bad news at your own risk. I prefer living.”
“Come on,” I said. “We have somewhere to be.”
She blinked. “We do?”
“You forgot?” I put a hand to my chest, offended. “I’m hurt. Deeply.”
She frowned, searching her memory.
Then realization dawned.
“The library,” she said.
I nodded. “I promised you a date without a safe room, storm cellar, or corpse.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Prez said we’re still on lockdown.”
“We are. Nobody goes out alone. Nobody takes the highway without backup.” I gestured toward the window. “The library stands three blocks away and shares a fence with our back lot.”
“You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” I leaned closer. “You missed books. I swore to fix this problem. They remain open until eight, which gives us two hours before Marci lectures us about vegetables again.”
Her smile unfolded slow as sunrise. “You asked Atilla?”
“Got his blessing at lunch.” I crossed my arms. “Prospects will patrol the fence. General knows the librarian well. No bikes, no romantic sunset rides -- we walk across the field.”
Her throat worked visibly.
“You good?”
“I’m…” She laughed, voice unsteady. “Yeah. Yes. I want this.”
I pointed toward the hallway. “Grab your boots. Prez made clear nobody crosses the fence in socks.”
The sky had gone soft by the time we cut across the back lot. A few clouds hung low, brushed pink and gold where the sun slid toward the horizon. The air felt neither hot nor cold -- suspended between seasons, between moments.
The fence at the far edge backed up to a narrow strip of grass, then ran into a chain-link boundary marking the library’s property. A locked gate connected them.
Prospect Jimmy stood watch, keys looped through his fingers. He scanned the tree line with nervous intensity, as though Diaz might materialize from behind any pine at any second.
“You’re clear,” he said as we approached. “Nobody on the cameras. No weird cars.”
“You keep your phone on you,” Kane said. “You see so much as a squirrel blinking wrong, you text me.”
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy said. He unlocked the gate and pushed it open.
Jade stared at the gap. “You sure about this?” she asked.
“You’re stepping through a fence into a library yard,” I said. “Not a portal into hell.”
“You haven’t met some of the librarians I grew up with,” she muttered.
I squeezed her hand. “You want to go back?”
“No,” she said. “I want to go forward. My stomach hasn’t gotten the memo yet.”
“Then we go slow,” I said.
We stepped through together.
The library sat small and brick, single story, with big windows and a faded mural on one wall. Someone had painted kids reading under a tree, an owl perched over them like he was judging their book choice.
A couple of cars dotted the front lot. Older sedans. A minivan. No black SUVs or flashy sports cars.
I pushed the door open.
Cool air washed over us, carrying dust and paper and a scent unique to library stacks. Old glue. Ink. Stories.
My chest loosened as I breathed in.
A bell chimed somewhere near the front desk.
“Hello,” a voice called. “Can I help… oh. Kane.” Miss Irene peered around a shelf of DVDs, her glasses sliding down her nose.
Sixty-something, gray bun, cardigan. She appeared an ordinary small-town librarian -- until someone put a shotgun in her hands.
Years ago, she’d sat on Atilla’s jury when some local idiot tried to stir trouble. The club earned her loyalty after.
“Ma’am.” I nodded. “You remember Jade?”
“I remember the girl who returned three overdue romance novels in one day and looked like she wanted to bolt when I smiled at her,” she replied dryly. “Hello, dear.”
Jade flushed. “Hi. Sorry again about… the fines.”
“You paid them,” Miss Irene said. “You fought through a panic attack to do it. I marked your account ‘heroic behavior.’”
Jade blinked. “You did?”
“’Course I did. Now what are you looking for? Same aisle? Or you ready for something with more explosions?”
Jade shook her head. “No explosions. Enough of those in real life right now.”
“Romance it is.” Irene nodded toward the shelves. “You know where they live. You two holler if you need anything.” She disappeared behind the desk.
Jade stood frozen for a second.
“Hey.” I nudged her gently. “You breathing?”
“Trying.”
“Want to leave?” I asked.
“No,” she said quickly. “I… she remembered me.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “She remembers everyone. It’s her job. She also knows not to ask questions you don’t want to answer. Consider this neutral ground. No cartel. No cops. Just old ladies who read more than we do.”
She laughed softly. “Okay. Show me your favorite section.”
I steered her toward the back. “Why don’t I show you where your favorite section is first.”
The romance section occupied two whole rows. Colors. Spines. Couples embraced in every pose known to man. Cowboys. Billionaires. Vampires. A few bikers. None resembled us.