Chapter 17
“They fucking knew.” Moto paced the hallway of the medical center and squeezed fistfuls of his hair, stopping in front of Razorback. “They fucking knew we were coming, and they went after our goddamn men.”
Trace had a nasty concussion and a few gashes, but he was going to be fine.
Razorback needed twenty-seven stitches in his already-scarred face, had some second-degree burns, and had blacked out when he was thrown.
The DEA agents hadn’t fared as well, losing the agent on the ground Razorback had been trying to get to, and the other attempted rescuer was in surgery—likely losing his arm.
There were only minor burn injuries at the warehouse.
But something else was bothering Moto, something he could barely even name.
He’d been safely stationed at a computer far away from the explosion, but the blast had rocked his foundation to the very core of his being.
DeRegina had gone to great lengths to fight back against an attack—because he knew damn well one was coming.
Razorback eyed him critically. “You heard from your brother?”
“No.” No one had seen or heard from Ben since he left for the real estate closing that morning. It was a blatant sign of trouble, the biggest clue as to what really happened at the port. DeRegina had known what was coming because Ben had told him.
Moto dropped onto a chair, his head throbbing as he worked to accept the unthinkable. “He was working with him all along.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“That agent is dead. Her family is suffering right now because of what my brother did.” He stood and kicked the tile wall, the vibration shooting up his leg.
He wanted to do more than that. He wanted to release this rage that threatened to destroy everything that mattered.
“Idiot motherfucker. He couldn’t walk away from the money.
That was what this was about. He wanted to be successful, even if that meant working for the scum of the earth.
Doing what no one in their right fucking mind would ever willingly do.
Poisoning our kids. That’s my brother for you. ”
Razorback dropped into the chair a few down from the one Moto had just vacated, the wound on his face scraping Moto’s insides raw.
Moto had put that there by calling HERO Force in to help his good-for-nothing brother.
He’d seared the burns into his friend’s skin.
“It’s my fault. I never should have asked you to help. ”
For a moment, Razorback didn’t respond. Then his dark eyes turned to Moto. “Bullshit. Save it for your therapist. You were doing what you thought was right. No one can do better than that.”
“He lied to us. He betrayed us. He let us be attacked.”
“Did you know that was going to happen?”
“Of course not.”
“Then quit blaming yourself for your brother’s bad decisions. It’s out of your control.”
Out of his control.
Everything that mattered was out of his control. He hated that it was true, that he couldn’t control his brother any more than he could control Davina or Wyatt, and he squeezed his hands into tight fists.
Sloan rounded a corner and walked toward them. “Fireworks,” he said. “Just like the manifest said. No actual explosives, just plenty of explosive material.”
Razorback shook his head. “They had to rig it to go off when the door was opened.”
“Of course, but so far, they can’t find any evidence to prove that. It just looks like one hell of an accident.”
“And the fifty-gallon drums?” asked Moto.
Sloan shook his head. “Acetone. Commonly used in the manufacture of methamphetamines. Not sure of the ignition source yet.”
Moto turned to Razorback. “What do we do now?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Either there really is a ship full of drugs, and it’s still out in the ocean someplace, waiting to dock, or there never was a ship.
” He shook his head. “I don’t buy that one.
We know DeRegina’s distribution network was completely cut off when his operations at the Port of Savannah were shut down.
It makes sense he’d have more on the way. ”
“You think he did all this to throw the feds off his scent so he could bring in the real shipment without attracting any attention?”
“It’s possible. But I got a call from Agent Spaulding with the DEA about an hour ago. He not-so-politely told me to keep my men away from DeRegina in the future and to leave the detective work to the professionals.”
“Ouch,” said Sloan.
Moto knew how much that phone call must have cost Razorback’s pride, though it did nothing to reduce the respect he personally felt for the other man. “So, anything we do from here on out, we do ourselves.”
Razorback met his eyes. “Or we listen to Spaulding and stay away from DeRegina.”
Moto put his hands on his hips. “I’ve got to fight this fight, with or without HERO Force. It’s personal for me. I have to stop my brother before he does any more damage.”
“And what if you can’t stop him?” asked Razorback. “Like I said, you can’t control other people, Moto. You can’t strong-arm them into doing what you want simply because you want it.”
“I’m staying.”
“Then you know we’re on your six. But it’s going to be dangerous.
DeRegina and his men are like a bunch of angry wasps, and the DEA’s been hitting their nest with a baseball bat.
We go in there now, we’re not going to get away with a few extra scars and a fucking concussion.
” He stood. “I’m going to check on Trace.
See if we can get his banged-up ass out of here before nightfall. ”
Sloan followed him. “I’ll come with you.”
Moto stared into space, the weight of all that had transpired resting firmly on his shoulders.
Razorback was right. If they went after DeRegina themselves, someone was bound to get hurt.
Maybe even killed. As much as he didn’t want to be responsible for that, he knew his HERO Force teammates would have his back no matter the danger that entailed.
They were brothers, even more than his own flesh and blood.
Where the fuck was Ben? He covered his face with his hands and pressed his fingers into his temples.
Maybe he’d never see him again. Maybe he’d show up during a showdown with DeRegina’s men, fighting for the opposite side.
Maybe he was long gone, running real estate deals in a new town, laundering more of that bastard’s drug money.
His phone vibrated. He had a text from Ben, as if his thoughts had conjured the electronic message.
Confirming our appointment for nine a.m. tomorrow for the appraisal of your riverfront property.
His mind immediately conjured up a picture of a dilapidated wooden shack a half an hour outside of town, its beams damn near resting on the ground. His parents had bought the property the summer before their death, with great plans for its renovation.
Moto had no idea what happened to it after he left Houston, but he knew exactly what Ben was telling him. He wanted Moto to meet him tomorrow morning by the river, and he wasn’t able—or willing—to speak freely.
He texted Ben back.
I’ll be there.