Author's Preface
Midtown somewhere. A sizeable building off Kenneth and 39th.
Kellen’s fingers moved to the keyboard of his laptop, and he typed in the intersecting streets. He opened maps view. He found the same rectangle and hovered his cursor over it.
“3800 Suite…” He opened a new tab and typed in the full address. Hit Enter.
The flip phone on the bed beside Kellen’s smartphone lit up and began vibrating. “Hanger & Guy? This is a corporate building…” He lifted the vibrating phone, flipped up the top, and raised it to his ear. “Hello.”
There was a small silence. Then, “Anything new?” Marcus’s voice.
H-A-N-G-E-R-&-G-U-Y. The fingers of Kellen’s free hand moved briskly across the keyboard. He hit Enter again. “I need backup.”
“What for?”
“My CI is going to give me a location for 3 PM this afternoon. Some kind of cargo transfer, by the sound of it.”
“So you decided he knows stuff?” The detective sounded surprised.
Kellen brushed his fingers across his lips. “Yes.” A holding company. That’s what Hanger & Guy was. And Alexei’s red dot had been positioned over their corporate office all day.
“Well, how did that come about?”
Silence. Kellen’s eyes scanned the pictures and bios in the “Meet the Team” section of the Hanger & Guy website.
A man with pristinely slicked white hair and too much Botox.
A woman with a sharp nose and prickly eyes.
A procession of well-dressed, highly educated, out-of-touch people.
“ Eastland?”
Kellen’s fingers retracted from the touchpad. His eyes lifted off the screen, unintentionally meeting the wordless stare of the dog stretched out on the other side of the bed. I found out he’s one of the ringleaders, the correct answer formed in Kellen’s mind. But that reality wasn’t making sense yet.
It was faulty bias. That sudden gut feeling that seized Kellen’s chest and prohibited him from revealing what he had witnessed. Faulty bias formed on those images of that figure bound and wet on a concrete floor. Of the sounds of his hushed cries in a dark bathroom, the blood trickling across his skin, the wounds invisible from the outside.
“I saw an interaction that proves he’s not bluffing,” Kellen responded, voice deadpan.
But the dreams weren’t real.
“Okay.” There was a pause. “Okay, so what’s this cargo transfer tonight?”
“I don’t know. He gave me a tracker to follow, and he said to find him at 3 PM and to bring backup. He said not to shoot the containers.”
“A tracker? To find him with? As in, a tracking device that’s physically on him?”
“Yes.”
“And it turns on at 3 PM?”
Kellen glanced down at the active red dot on his phone screen. Wordlessly, he rotated the device face-down on the bed. “Correct.”
“What’s in the containers?”
“I gave you all the information he gave me.”
“Some kind of ammunition?”
Explosives, Kellen’s mind specified. But he said nothing.
“A munitions deal is SWAT territory.” There was a pause. “That’s not a lot to make paperwork out of. And you don’t have an address? Nothing else to make any kind of probable cause?”
“Don’t take a SWAT team, then.” Kellen said simply.
“I’m not sending standard issues into a munitions deal.” Another long silence followed. “Alright, Eastland. I’ll see what I can get together. How does the tracker work on your end? Some kind of device we need to get from you?”
Kellen’s fingers automatically contracted around his phone. “No. I’ll come with you.”
A long pause. “Nah, man, we can’t take a risk like that. If this turns into something, you could be seen.”
“I won’t be seen.”
“What are you gonna do? Wear a mask and hope for the best?” Incredulity. A level of incredulity Kellen sensed meant the detective he was speaking with might be actively questioning his choice of hire. At least enough that the smooth professionalism cracked off his speech.
“I need to be there,” Kellen responded. “I need to see what they see out there, and bodycam footage is not enough. I need to see exactly what this kid wants me to see, because he is insanely hard to get talking, and I’m in this blind until I know his perspective. So, yes, I will wear a mask.”
“Insanely hard to get talking, huh? Sounds like someone I know.” Marcus was quiet for several seconds. Then, “Fine. I don’t know what that BS really means, but Redder says you know what you’re doing. Cover at least half your face and wear a hood. And you’re staying in the truck the entire time.”
* * * *
“A risk like that.” Half a dozen instances in which he had taken risks far greater passively drifted through Kellen’s mind as he watched uniformed men get into an unmarked black van—a vehicle unanimously referred to as “the truck.”
There was an actual truck—an F-150 that Marcus briefly explained would be the scout vehicle. “You’ll be in the truck with me, though,” he had said, referring to the one of the two vehicles that was not a truck.
Kellen entered the black van second-to-last. Bent over, fingers gripping his phone, he walked down the middle aisle between two juxtaposed seat benches bristling with assault rifles. The only significant gap was between two people. Kellen wordlessly took the spot, sinking against the backrest until he nearly disappeared between the tall figure on one side and the round one on the other. Arlo, Kellen recognized one of them from the restaurant meet-up.
Marcus entered the van last and shut the sliding door with a slam. He took the passenger seat, then rotated himself sideways so he could view the team. A few seconds of silence passed. “Eastland make it?”
Two fingers were pointed at Kellen before he had a chance to self-identify.
“Yeah, he’ here,” Arlo said. He took the opportunity to give Kellen a thorough glance up and down. “An’ he even wearin’ that mask like you tol’ him, matter a’ fac’.”
Kellen’s eyes shifted in their sockets to give the officer beside him a wordless, four-second stare.
“God- damn, ” Arlo whispered, grimacing, a hand swept up his arm like that look might have burned him.
“Tim.” Marcus turned briefly to the officer on the bench closest to the front.
The SWAT leader nodded in acknowledgement.
“What’s our heading, Eastland?” Marcus asked.
Kellen’s eyes lowered to his phone. That red dot had started moving fifteen minutes ago, and it was still moving—following 34th and heading west. Kellen silently handed his phone to the tall man beside him, then watched as the cracked device was passed up to Marcus.
Swallowing the repulsed feeling in his stomach at watching his phone change hands so many times, Kellen took his eyes off the device and lowered his chin to the bulletproof vest covering his chest.
“That’ll work,” Marcus announced. He set the phone in a holder facing the driver.
The van started moving.
Almost a minute went by in silence. Soon, Kellen told himself, Marcus would say something about the operation.
Wrong.
“De’Angelo, how’s your kid?” someone toward the front asked.
Marcus took his eyes off the windshield and turned back to face the team. “Which one?” He smiled—mysteriously, eyes sparkling.
“Wait, you―” The man hesitated. “Are you having another one?”
Marcus’s face broke with a smile. “I am, indeed.”
“His wife’ already six months in, du’,” Arlo provided from beside Kellen.
“Wow—I didn’t know. Congrats, man.”
“Four-year-old is doing good, too,” Marcus said with a smile.
“On that detective salary De’Angelo got,” someone else in the van spoke up. “Why the hell are kids so expensive?”
There was a moment of unanimous agreement.
Then, “Yeah, but you know De’Angelo has a connect to help him out with the medical bills.”
“Excuse me?” Marcus’s eyebrows shot up.
“Ain’t you buddies with a full-ass doctor?” the assertive reply came.
“Yeah, but he’s not my doctor.” Marcus cleared up immediately. “Or my wife’s or my kids’ doctor. Hell, I wish he helped me out with my bills.” He laughed.
“Then why’ he comin’ ’round the station all the time?” Arlo asked. “See, I know who you’ talkin’ about. That big Asian du’ wit’ the long hair.”
“Oh, I’ve seen that guy,” someone else chimed in.
Marcus was stroking his beard. He lifted his head a little and dropped his chin into his hand. “Did you just call my best friend ‘that big Asian dude’?”
Laughter. Arlo shrugged, his assault weapon shifting between his knees. “He’ a tall-ass Asian. I ain’ seen another Asian big as him.” Arlo’s thumb jerked in Kellen’s direction. “Most ’em come more like this guy.” Then, glancing twice at Kellen, “Sorry, du’.” He looked back at Marcus. “An’ what he comin’ ’round the station fo’ anyhow like he got some kinda recurring lunch date or some shit?”
“I don’t know!” Marcus shrugged exaggeratedly. “Guy doesn’t know what to do with himself when his husband’s outta town.”
“‘ His’ husband?” someone immediately caught.
“See, yeah, that’s how you know De’Angelo ain’ scared a’ nothin’ ,” Arlo put in. “He got a gay bes’ friend.”
More laughter and agreement.
“Nah, y’all crazy,” Marcus muttered. He glanced back at the windshield.
“Hush, he’ busy workin’ out the sugar baby deets,” Arlo laughed.
“Are you for real, Arlo?” Marcus smirked and turned away.
And then there was another conversation at the back of the van. Hushed, but barely discreet.
“Have you ever looked up Saffie Aoki?”
“De’Angelo’s friend. Saffie Aoki.”
Someone’s phone was being passed around.
“He’s married to an actual celebrity. Rae Arana. Forbes estimated his net worth at like twelve million.”
“Seriously?”
“One hundred percent, there’s a prenup.”
“Yeah, definitely. Doctors make bank, but not like that.”
“Fuckin’ gays, man,” was the last thing Kellen heard before the conversation fell silent.