Submerged(Bound Together Book 1)(69)
At seven o’clock, Fernando and the men we met the other night enter, wearing all black. They definitely play the part of car thieves, carrying bags of tools and fancy gadgets. Basically the same things our crew carries, but with different weapons. Their guns are in plain sight, strapped to their hips like the damn mafia. I note every weapon caliber visible, making a mental list of the heat packed in this room.
Midnight hits, and it’s finally go time. I stand aside as our men, along with Fernando’s, head out to start the job. I don’t know exactly when the Agency is going to strike, but I know it’ll be when we least expect it. They’ll be watching, waiting and biding their time, until all of the big fish are in one location. And that location is right here.
The first car rolls in at twelve twenty-four. I begin working the electronic system to remove the VIN number, replacing it with a new one from our contact with the State. As the cars come in, I remove the personal possessions from inside and any other identifying markers for the car. Lambo, Porsche, Audi, Aston Martin, rare classic muscles cars, hell, even a Bugatti–they’re all here. The bounty on this load is more than I can even process, and this is just from Vegas. I can’t imagine if business was set up in Los Angeles or New York City. Think of all that money.
At two-thirty, the last of the nine cars makes its way into the facility. I’m anxious as I start the process on this car that I’ve completed to eight previous ones. Just as I get underneath the car to remove a few identifying numbers, the large roll-up door on the front of the building blows in. The noise is deafening as men start to scatter like roaches. Men in full tactical gear swarm the building, guns drawn and pointed straight at us. It only takes one shot. One man to pull his weapon and fire before bullets begin to rain down on us.
I pull my handgun and hold my position from a squat next to the car I was stripping. Bodies are running and moving everywhere and I can no longer tell who’s friendly and who isn’t. My best bet is to hold my position until they come for me. When a man in black tactical points his automatic rifle at me, I drop my weapon, and get down on my knees as directed. I won’t fight them on this. They know there’s an undercover operative on location, but I’ll let them sort it out after they get everyone rounded up and accounted for.
After my co-worker cuffs me, he leads me to the side where a few others are gathered, all cuffed and cursing. Roman and Mattias are both still face down on the concrete with their hands placed behind their heads. Fernando is being escorted towards us in cuffs by a man who resembles the build of my brother. With the black mask, I can’t be sure it’s him, but his mannerisms and the way he walks just scream Luke. Fernando spews Italian, and I’m sure every other word is a curse word.
After Roman, Mattias, and everyone else is cuffed, we’re walked out through the decimated door and ushered like cattle towards waiting black vans. Before I’m slipped inside, I find a pair of green eyes trained on me, watching my progression. He gives me a slight nod before turning and counting the men. If the way he relaxes is any indication, it appears all of our men are accounted for and uninjured.
“How many in each van?” Luke asks the group of agents next to the van.
“Four in each van, sir. Eight total,” one answers.
“Eight? Where is the ninth?” Luke asks, turning and counting the men in handcuffs.
“We only found eight, sir,” the other agent says.
Luke turns and looks at me. For only a second, we share a knowing look. As I search the faces of the men being loaded into the two awaiting vans, I realize instantly who’s missing. We’ve only rounded up eight men, including me. I turn to look at my brother and do my best to relay to him that we have a problem. A big fucking problem.
Styx isn’t here.
Chapter Twenty-Three – Uneasy
Feelings
Carly
“Yes?” I say, pushing the intercom next to my front door.
“Let me in, bitch.” Tara’s reply echoes off the walls in my foyer. I’m thankful that Natalia isn’t quite old enough to pay attention to her honorary aunt’s potty mouth. Without giving a reply, I push the button to unlock the front door.
A couple of minutes later, a fast knock to the beat of “shave and a haircut” reverberates through the kitchen. “Pizza delivery,” she yells through the door. My smile is full-wattage as I throw open the door for my best friend.
“Special delivery for one Miss Carly Mathewson and little Miss Natalia Mathewson,” she says as she breezes into the room, a fragrant cloud of pizza and perfume following in her wake.