17. Zaria #2
"Musa." Greer nods like they're discussing weather. "Okay, Musa. Here's the situation. You've got information we need, and you're going to give it to us. The only question is how much you're going to hurt before you decide cooperation is the smart choice."
"I don't know anything?—"
"Wrong." Greer cuts him off without raising his voice.
"You're a capo in the Okafor organization.
That means you're privy to strategy, planning, operational details.
You don't get that position by being uninformed.
" He crouches down to Musa's eye level. "So we know you know things.
The question is what you know and how forthcoming you're willing to be about sharing. "
Musa's jaw works, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Let me help you understand the stakes." Greer's tone stays perfectly reasonable.
"Zaria needs to know what the Okafors are planning so she can protect her territory and her crew.
That's not negotiable—she's getting that information tonight regardless of how this conversation goes.
What is negotiable is how much damage you take before you give it up. "
"I can't—" Musa swallows hard. "If I talk, they'll kill me."
"They'll kill you if we let you go, sure." Greer stands, pacing slowly around the chair. "But that's a problem for future Musa to worry about. Present Musa needs to be much more concerned about what happens in the next hour if you stay quiet."
I watch Greer work, fascinated by this version of him. This isn't the good boy who drops to his knees for me or the marketing analyst who works in Manhattan. This is someone harder, sharper, using his strategic brain to dismantle Musa's resistance through logic instead of violence.
"Here's what I think." Greer stops beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush.
"I think the Okafors are planning something big.
Multiple operations, probably coordinated to hit several Bennett interests simultaneously.
They're gathering intelligence on shipping routes, which means they want to intercept product.
That's the obvious play—cut off supply, make Zaria look weak, move in on destabilized territory. "
Musa's expression flickers—just a fraction of a second, but enough.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Greer's voice carries satisfaction. "Multiple hits, coordinated timing. What's the timeline? This week? Next week?"
"I don't?—"
"Friday." The guess comes out confident. "It's Friday, isn't it? That gives them time to position people, coordinate with inside help—because you've definitely got someone inside feeding you information—and still catch everyone by surprise."
Musa's eyes go wide.
Fuck. Greer nailed it through pure strategic thinking, reading the situation and the target's reactions to build a complete picture. It's exactly what he does with marketing data, except now he's applying it to criminal operations with terrifying effectiveness.
"How many operations?" I ask, taking over. "And don't bother lying—we already know the basics."
Musa stares at his lap, breathing hard. Making the calculation about what's worse: betraying his organization or whatever we'll do to him if he stays quiet.
"Three," he says finally. "Three simultaneous hits on Friday night. Northern shipping route, the warehouse near Marco's bar, and your east side distribution hub."
Three targets, each one critical to Bennett operations. If they'd pulled it off, it would've crippled us—not destroyed, but damaged enough that other organizations might see us as vulnerable and start making their own moves.
"How many people?" Greer asks.
"Twenty total. Maybe twenty-five."
"Who's your inside contact?"
"I don't know." Musa looks up, desperate now. "I swear to God, I don't know. That information goes through Ezinne directly. She doesn't tell capos who the sources are."
Ezinne Okafor—the boss's sister and enforcer. She's the one who handles their dirty work, and she's smart enough to compartmentalize information so that losing one person doesn't compromise the whole operation.
"What else?" I lean against the wall beside Greer, letting him stay in the lead. "What aren't you telling us?"
"That's everything." Musa's voice cracks. "I've told you everything I know. Please?—"
"Names." Greer's tone stays level. "Give us names of everyone involved in the Friday operations. Every single person who's supposed to be part of those hits."
Musa talks. Names spill out of him in a desperate rush—people I recognize, people I don't, a mix of Okafor's regular crew and hired muscle. Greer pulls out his phone, typing rapidly, cataloging every detail like he's taking notes in a business meeting.
By the time Musa runs dry, we have enough information to completely dismantle the Okafor's Friday operation before it even starts.
We know who's coming, when, where, and roughly how many.
We can either fortify our positions and make it a trap, or we can take the fight to them first and eliminate the threat entirely.
"See?" Greer tucks his phone away. "That wasn't so hard."
Musa slumps in his chair, looking like he's aged ten years in the past twenty minutes.
I should feel something about how efficiently Greer handled this. Should be concerned that he's this good at interrogation, this comfortable dissecting someone's resistance through strategic questioning instead of physical violence.
Instead, I'm just turned on.
Watching him work, seeing how far he's come from the clean-cut marketing guy who stumbled into my world months ago—it does something to me. He's not playing at this anymore. He's become this. Hard and strategic and dangerous in ways that complement my more direct approach perfectly.
"Good work, sweetheart." I push off the wall, moving closer to Musa. "Now here's what happens next. You're going to go back to the Okafors and tell them Bennett caught you but you didn't talk. You're going to stick to that story no matter what they do to verify it. Understood?"
Musa nods frantically.
"And if I find out you warned them about what you told us tonight?" I crouch down, making sure he sees my face. "I will hunt you down personally and make sure you regret every single word that comes out of your mouth. Clear?"
"Clear."
"Good boy." I stand, glancing at Greer. "Cut him loose."
Greer moves forward with his pocket knife, slicing through the rope around Musa's wrists and ankles with efficient movements. The second he's free, Musa staggers to his feet and runs for the door without looking back.
The sound of his footsteps fades into the night, leaving silence broken only by the distant sound of water against dock pilings.
"Think he'll actually keep quiet?" Greer asks.
"Doesn't matter." I turn to face him fully. "We have everything we need. If he talks, the Okafors know we're coming. If he doesn't, they walk into a trap Friday night." I close the distance between us. "Either way, we win."
"We." His mouth curves. "I like that."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." He reaches for me, fingers finding my hips. "I've been inside your head for weeks now, sweetheart. Not planning on leaving."
The violence is still humming under my skin, adrenaline from the interrogation mixing with something hotter and more demanding. This always happens—violence as foreplay, the rush of control and danger bleeding into want that needs an outlet.
I can see the same hunger in Greer's eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide and his breathing has gone shallow. He wants me. Always wants me. But he's waiting for permission, for me to make the first move, to tell him what I need.
"Outside," I tell him. "Now."
We barely make it out the loading door before I'm shoving him against the warehouse exterior, brick rough under my palms as I cage him in. His hands find my waist immediately, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel how hard he is through his jeans.
"Someone's eager," I murmur against his mouth.
"You just spent twenty minutes being terrifying and strategic." His hands slide lower, gripping my ass. "What did you expect?"
"I expected my good boy to have more self-control." I bite his lower lip hard enough to sting. "Guess I was wrong."
"You make me lose control." He kisses me hard, all tongue and teeth and desperation. "Everything about you makes me lose control."
I grind against him, drawing a groan from his throat. "That's because you're mine. My good boy who does anything to please me."
"Anything," he agrees breathlessly. "Fuck, Zaria?—"