Chapter 2
Two
He was such a liar.
And it didn’t help that Asher sat in Riley’s Sports Bar, surrounded by friends who thought they knew him, watching a hockey game like nothing to see here.
Except his stupid phone kept buzzing with texts from Patterson, wondering how his meet with Draven went.
Uh, not at all. He wasn’t ready to meet with the syndicate boss. Not with Martha’s blood still fresh on his hands.
He was just as liable to pull out his gun and end the man. So just in case, yes, he’d answered Michael’s text to hang out with a few of his cronies, nursing beers and wings.
“Did you see that save? Unbelievable,” Michael said. He sat with a guy named Luca, a PI Asher knew by reputation but hadn’t worked with, and another big guy named Rowan, a former spec ops guy who had recently moved back to Renegade.
Oh, and EMT Jackson Stewart, who he knew by name from local emergencies. Jackson had brought his girlfriend, Mia, and apparently Michael had a girlfriend now too, and wouldn’t you know it, it was Dani Kim, from the office.
He probably needed to pay a little more attention to people’s personal lives. (Except he was sort of busy just trying to live two lives.)
The Blue Ox goalie had just stopped a breakaway. The crowd erupted—cheering, stomping, beer sloshing from raised glasses.
Asher forced his gaze to the screen.
The replay showed the goalie’s glove snapping shut on the puck.
“Yeah.” He tried. “Great save.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed.
Just a flicker, but enough.
Thirty seconds through the door and already the mask was slipping.
“You want buffalo or BBQ?” Dani pushed the platter toward him. The wings glistened under the bar lights, the sharp tang of buffalo sauce cutting through beer and fried food.
His stomach turned.
TV announcers called another play, and the crowd noise swelled. Luca Saxon gestured at the screen with his beer. “Blue Ox take this one, they’re going to finals.”
Dr. Kira Yassan leaned into his shoulder. “You’re really getting into hockey.”
“When in Colorado.” Luca grinned.
The crowd roared as the Blue Ox pushed hard and fast.
Asher’s phone buzzed.
Patterson.
Third time in ten minutes.
He pulled it out under the table.
Patterson
Hal’s. Twenty minutes. Come alone.
His jaw locked.
Hal’s Tavern. Eastside dive.
“Everything okay?” Michael’s voice cut through the noise.
Asher looked up and met those dark eyes.
“Work.” He pocketed his phone. “I have to head out.”
“You just got here.” Dani’s smile faded. “Like, ten minutes ago.”
“I know.” He grabbed his jacket and keys. “Something came up.”
Michael stood. “I’ll walk you out.”
Saying no would make it worse.
Asher nodded and slid from the booth. Everyone’s eyes tracked him. “Enjoy the game.”
November air hit the second he pushed through the door. Cold and sharp, the taste of the wind off the mountains promised snow.
Michael followed, his footsteps crunching on gravel. “You want to tell me what’s really going on?”
Asher kept walking. “I told you. Work.”
“You’ve been different all night.” Michael’s voice sharpened. “I know we don’t know each other well, but you seem on edge. What’s going on?”
Asher’s hand found the car door. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
Asher glanced at him.
“Martha.” Michael lifted a shoulder. “Just…you know. Could have stirred up some memories.”
There it was, the past. Gemma. And for a second, he was in the street, his sister’s warm blood on his hands.
Asher turned. Michael stood three feet away with his hands in his pockets, breath visible. Eyes hard, edged with a sort of pain.
“I’m fine.”
“Asher—”
“I have to go.”
Michael’s expression shifted as hurt bled into suspicion. “Whatever you’re dealing with—I’m here. As a friend.”
And didn’t that hit him right in the chest. “I know.” He opened the door and started the engine. “Thanks.”
He got in and pulled out.
Michael stood alone under parking-lot lights in the rearview.
Asher couldn’t look at him.
Hal’s Tavern sat three blocks east. Same street. Different world.
No game-day crowds. No families. No bright jerseys. Just dim neon and blacked-out windows. The kind of bar that opened at noon and forgot to close.
Asher parked in back. The door stuck when he pushed—old wood swollen with mountain moisture. The walls emanated the stench of stale beer and decades of smoke. Now his outsides matched his soul.
Two pool tables occupied the back. Red vinyl booth seating lined the walls. A long bar ran down the right side.
Patterson sat in the corner booth with his back to the wall, smoke ribboning off a cigarette propped on an ashtray.
Clearly a place that didn’t follow the rules.
Asher slid across from him.
Patterson didn’t look up from his phone. “You’re late.”
“You said twenty minutes.”
“Twenty-five minutes ago.” He put his phone away. “You disobeyed orders today.”
Asher just looked at him. “Martha Lintz is dead.”
“You knocked into the shooter and tried to render aid.” Patterson pulled a file from beside him and dropped it on the scarred wood. Crime scene photos spilled out.
“So?”
“So, I told you to observe and maintain cover.”
“I did.”
“You interfered with a hit.”
“I tried to save a witness.”
“You compromised eighteen months!” His voice stayed low, but fury bled through. “Eighteen months cultivating the syndicate. And in one morning, you risked all of it.”
Asher’s hands tightened on the table edge. “She deserved better than bleeding out while everyone took pictures.”
“She was in protective custody. Not your responsibility.”
“She died anyway.”
“Yes.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “Because someone inside is feeding Draven Frost information. Which is why your operation matters. We need to know who’s dirty. We need you maintaining cover—not blowing it to save one witness when thousands more are at risk.”
One witness. He looked away and wanted to hit something.
“Roger Rousseau is still alive.” Patterson opened another file. Hospital photos showed tubes and monitors. “He’s being released on Friday afternoon.”
“To go where?”
“Witness protection.”
“Seriously?” He looked back at Patterson. “Federal protection got Martha killed. Maybe that’s where we’ll find the mole.”
“Agreed. Caroline Kumar is bringing in outside help. A contractor who specializes in witness protection.”
“No. I’ll watch him.”
“We’re pulling Destiny too. You can’t watch both of them.”
Destiny. Roger’s mother, also in custody. Also a witness, although she didn’t have the knowledge Martha had. Still, it could help.
“I’ve spent eighteen months building intelligence. By myself. I don’t need help.”
“You’re a dead man, Asher.”
He blinked at Patterson.
“I’m trying to keep you alive here.” Patterson’s voice dropped. “You think Dmitri didn’t report back? You think Frost isn’t asking why his corrupt agent suddenly developed a conscience?”
His stomach dropped.
“Has Draven reached out?”
Asher’s mouth tightened.
“If you meet with him, you’d better have a good story.” Patterson closed the files. “Frost is going to suspect you.”
“I know.”
Patterson crushed out his cigarette. “Listen. The judge is rescheduling the date, and I’m working on a plea deal for Roger.
We’ll get another shot at this—but you need to stay alive and keep these two witnesses alive.
And if that means playing nice with the US Marshals Service, then you’re going to do it, with a smile on your ugly mug. ”
He stood and dropped cash on the table for drinks they hadn’t ordered. “Get some sleep. Take a shower. Eat a decent meal and be in my office on Thursday at nine a.m.”
“What if this contractor doesn’t trust me?”
“He won’t if he’s smart.”
Right.
“Listen. Keep your head down. Maintain cover.”
Patterson pocketed his pack of Winstons. “We’re close, Asher. If Roger and Destiny testify, we take down the entire syndicate. Everything you’ve sacrificed for eighteen months—it’s almost over. Just stay the course a little longer.”
Patterson’s steel-gray hair caught the dim bar light. He’d changed out of his suit, wore a sweater under a leather jacket, suit pants. The lines around his eyes had deepened in the eighteen months since this operation started.
“And Asher. Trust no one.” He walked out.
Yeah, well, no problem.
Asher waited a second, then headed for the back door.
The temperature had dropped, and the wind carried an edge. He got into his truck, started the engine, and let the heat blast.
For a second, he debated returning to Riley’s.
Nope.
He headed east, toward the Southwold part of the city. His apartment building sat on a shadowed street, the one-bedroom unit that he’d rented furnished located three stories up, no elevator.
He climbed the stairs, unlocked his door, punched in the security code, and let himself in. The blinds were closed, the light glaring as he turned on the overhead in the kitchen. Dirty Formica, an old electric stove, a metal table, a couple folding chairs.
And in the family room, a faux leather sofa, so worn he’d thrown a blanket over it. He emptied his pockets and saw he’d gotten a message during his shakedown with Patterson.
He pulled up the voicemail. “Hi, honey, it’s Mom.”
Her voice filled the empty room. “I know it’s been a while. Work keeps you busy. But I wanted to call because—well, your sister’s birthday is next month, and…I wondered if maybe…”
His chest tightened.
“It would be her twenty-fifth. Her golden birthday. Twenty-five on the twenty-fifth.”
His sister’s face appeared in his memory—eighteen, laughing, planning.
“Seven years now, Ash. Seven years. And I still have her ashes on my dresser. We keep saying we’ll spread them when we’re ready, but…
I don’t think we’ll ever be ready.” Her voice wavered.
“But it’s time. I want to take her to that overlook.
You remember? It’s south of Denver. We went hiking there the summer before you graduated. ”
Something cracked in his chest.
“I want to spread her ashes there. Let her rest somewhere happy. But I can’t do it alone. I need you there. And I think you need this too. Seven years carrying this. Maybe it’s time we let her go. Together.