Page 99 of Tyler's Rule
Convict wheezed. Kane snorted then flattened it.
In the shadows, with one boot against a wall, Heretic tightened his jaw. “We’re tracking a man named Rhys Jacobs. He just re-entered Deadwater.”
That wiped the grin off Convict’s face and replaced it with something meaner. “The auctioneer? Holy shit.”
“Apparently. He appeared back on the scene earlier today. We were waiting.”
“How?” Convict demanded. “Mila should know. Fuck, she’ll want him taken alive.”
Heretic described how a lucky licence plate pickup triggered Tyler’s monitoring system, and how they’d been lying in wait, breaking only to bring in their other target.
Damn, we were slacking.
Kane jerked his chin to where the alley opened out. “Jacobs is inside the back office of that unit. Two exits. Two cameras. We’ve already looped the back one to give us a way in.”
I grinned. “Paranoid. I like him already.”
Heretic straightened. “He’s cautious. Been on the run long enough to develop habits.”
Convict stowed his phone where he’d no doubt been texting his missus, then cracked his knuckles. “This asshole sold girls and women. What’s the plan?”
Heretic answered. “Kane takes the rear exit. Ash, you go in visible. Give him something to focus on.”
I placed a hand on my chest. “Me? A distraction? I’m hurt.”
“You’re loud,” Heretic said.
“You still love me, though.”
He ignored that.
Convict leaned in. “Where do you want me?”
“Out here,” Heretic said. “We cut him off when he runs.”
I clapped my hands together. “Right then. Let’s go bring down a bad guy.”
The door to the unit creaked under my touch, the echo loud in the empty space. I swung the door back and forth to repeat the sound. No need to be sneaky. Inside, shelves lined the walls, most of them empty. A single light burned in the back office.
I didn’t bother being quiet. “Evening. Bit late for business, isn’t it?”
There was a scrape of a chair inside. A pause.
Then Rhys Jacobs stepped into view.
Dude was thin and sharp-faced. His eyes clocked every detail. In his hands, he held an honest-to-God briefcase. Who the hell still ran crime out of a briefcase?
“Wrong place, friend,” he said.
“Funny.” I strolled forward. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
His smile dropped.
Tossing the bag at me, he bolted.
I dodged it and barked, “Go!” Then chased after him.
Jacobs sprinted for the side exit, yanking the door open.
