Page 68
Hence why he called us.
Not being in Church doesn’t mean you don’t get the important highlights of the shit going on, I.E. the Berkleys trying to move prohibited product through our city.
People are not a supply pipeline that we will ever open.
Especially not kids.
Tags extends his fair-skinned open palm towards Kegger for the shaking. “Went ahead and sent the rookie down the road to set up roadblocks for traffic redirection.” He offers me his hand once they’re through. “Both assholes are cuffed.” Lastly, the gesture is given to Agustin Rocher “Flames”, the other Misfit that was called in. “Both aren’t talking.”
“Is that because they’ve got nothin’ to say or got duct tape over their mouths, Sheriff?” Kegger cockily teases during our stroll towards the vehicle.
An indifferent shrug bounces his svelte frame. “Sometimes the right to remain silent has to be an order given.”
Chuckles leave each of us; however, they instantly fade at the sight of the two men secured in the front of the vehicle.
“What made you pull them over?” Flames investigates.
“Dive’s bolo,” he replies, hand going to rest near his service weapon. “This moving company was on the list of Berkley related associates.”
“Seems stupid to move shit through shit we could easily tie back to you,” Flames criticizes, beach bronzed skin face sneering in irritation.
“I get the feeling it wasn’t an easy tie,” Tags swiftly argues, “but a distant fucking risky one that they had to make after their last attempt to get ‘antiques’ delivered.” Our eyes cut back over to him. “Organizations don’t tend to fuck with one another if it’s ultimately going to fuck with their bottom line. Profits over everything.”
Unless of course you’re a Misfit.
Then it’s protection over everything.
“These pieces of shit,” Tags kicks his chin at the transport truck, “are more freelancers than anything else. They don’t give a fuck who they work for or what they move, just that they get paid and laid.” He flashes a vile smirk in their direction. “Ain’t that right, boys?”
The big forehead, beige skinned male in the driver’s seat simply glares in return.
“That means we won’t be pissin’ on anyone’s shoes with a little search and seizure procedure,” Kegger mirthfully points out prior to motioning his head to the back. “You two handle that. I’ll stay here. Watch these motherfuckers while Tags answers his call from dispatch.”
Flames and I nod our understanding and relocate to the back where he unholsters his weapon in preparation to shoot if necessary while I pick the lock.
Not that it’s hard.
It’s basic shit.
The padlocks on the fridge at my second foster home growing up were harder than this.
Once I’m finished, I raise the back up to reveal a pretty densely packed space filled with what appears to just be furniture.
We know better.
Anyone who’s ever fucking smuggled anything knows better.
Hell, even the rookie Tags sent off would at least scan the sitch for a couple clues.
Satisfied that there’s no immediate threat is what leads to Flames lowering his weapon yet knowing to stay ready is what pushes me to reach for my blade to strike first rather than be struck, always at the front of my mind.
There’s barely enough time for me to hop on board before Kegger calls out, “Anything?”
“Searching,” I reply on a kick of a crate box marked fragile.
“Can’t you read?” taunts Flames. “Says fraggle.”
Humor has the corner of my lips kicking upward.
