Chapter 6 Saint
Saint
The dead man’s gun bothers me.
Not because he had one.
Because of what he had.
Havoc turns the weapon slowly in his hands beneath the bright light over the bar.
“This isn’t Rossi work.”
Trigger looks up from the laptop.
“You sure?”
Havoc taps the side of the weapon.
“Positive.”
He points to the serial grind pattern.
“Rossi people use European loadouts. Italian imports. Clean, tight supply chains.”
He sets the gun on the table.
“This is U.S. contractor gear.”
Wolf frowns.
“So not mafia?”
“Not his,” Havoc says.
That’s the first crack.
And I don’t like cracks.
Trigger leans back in his chair.
“Could still be Marco outsourcing.”
“Could be,” Havoc admits.
“But if he did, he hired the wrong guys.”
Wolf crosses his arms.
“Why?”
“Because professionals don’t walk into a building blind,” Havoc says.
“They’d have recon. Layout. Cameras mapped.”
He gestures toward the stairwell.
“These guys walked straight into Saint’s hallway like they’d never seen the place.”
The room goes quiet.
Because we all know what that means.
Someone rushed this.
Or someone didn’t care if the job was clean.
“Run the prints,” I say.
Trigger nods and starts typing again.
“Already started.”
“Run the weapon.”
“On it.”
“And follow the money,” I add.
That’s the one that matters.
Because killers are loyal to one thing.
Payment.
“I want to know exactly who paid for this.”
Trigger glances up.
“And if it comes back Rossi?”
My jaw tightens.
“Then I go through Marco.”
Wolf studies me.
“To make sure Laney’s safe?”
“Yes.”
Trigger watches me carefully.
“And if it isn’t Rossi?”
Then we’ve got something worse.
Something is hiding in the dark.
“Then we’ve got a ghost.”