Vice Enforcer Read online

  The statement leaves unspoken words that the whole group picks up on. If there’s a trainee, there has to be a trainer. The guy in charge—or at least the one acting like he’s in charge—swings a hand around over his head.

  “Search the whole yard,” he commands. “Go in teams of two. Find the other one.” He glances back over to the van. “Pack it up! We don’t have any more time.”

  The sudden energetic movement fills the air like the buzz of angry bees. I grab the handholds on the side of the boxcar and pull myself up, stopping halfway to the top and waiting, hidden in the shadows. I have no idea how I’m going to get out of this shithole of a situation, but I’m not about to roll over and die either.

  “This is the Joliet City Police,” Shelby shouts from two boxcars away. His voice chills the flurry of movement. “We have you surrounded! Drop your weapons and place your hands on your head!”

  What a brazen bluff. Not one that the thugs believe, however.

  They hone in on Shelby’s voice and jog over, spreading out to surround him. Two guys round the corner of my boxcar, their eyes widening the moment they spot my shadowy figure. The next half second is filled with the burst of handgun fire. My Desert Eagle has a kickback that hurts my wrist, but I shoot the first guy in the jaw and the second through the knee. Bullets strike the boxcar, one clipping the shell of my ear before stopping dead in the hard steel. I feel nothing through the surge of adrenaline.

  “There’s one here!” the guy with a busted knee yells, his voice half a scream of agony and half rage. He lifts his gun, and I shoot him again, this time hitting his gut. A bulletproof vest shields his soft belly from getting shredded, but not from the concussion. The tough bastard curls around his bruised stomach and rolls under the boxcar, a trail of bloody mud left in his wake.

  I clamber up the last of the handrails and crouch down on the roof of the car, ducking out of sight.

  I swear I don’t even take two breaths before a flash of light and an intense bang fills the rail yard. I’m far enough from the radius of the explosion—and shielded by the steel frame of the car—that I’m not disorientated, but I’ve experienced enough stun grenades to know that everyone on the ground is blind and deaf. A mild ringing fills my ears as I dig out my cell phone from my jacket pocket.

  Maybe it’s because I’ve lived most of my life as a criminal, or maybe it’s because I’ve known a lot of crooked cops, but I’ve never trusted the police. I don’t call them. Instead I call the one person I trust, and the one person whose voice I want to hear if I’m about to die.

  The phone rings. In the distance, I hear another round of gunfire. I don’t know how Shelby pulls it off, but he’s making two people feel like ten.

  “Hello?” a groggy voice echoes from the speaker.

  “Miles, I’m at the North Union Rail Yard,” I say with an exhale, thankful he answered despite the hour.

  “Pierce?” Alarm replaces all hint of sleep in Miles’s voice. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  The next round of gunfire is closer than the last. I hang up the phone, unable to explain the situation in a coherent manner. He’s a smart guy. He’ll call the cops.

  The harsh strike of bullets on steel is so close to my head that it hurts my ears. I roll away from the gunshots, my clothes soaking up the icy dew pooling on top of the boxcar. Shaken and uncertain of what I’m going to do, I glance around.

  There’s a boxcar parked ahead of mine. I stand and run for it, well aware I can’t stay up long or else I’ll get shot from men on the ground. I jump over the three-foot gap and slip on the landing. Before I can correct my footing, I slide to the edge of the boxcar and spot the two guys climbing up the handholds.

  I shoot at them twice, knocking one guy down and jarring the other enough to cause him to fall.

  God, I wish Miles were here. Having heard his voice reminds me that I’m alone in this struggle. I have no idea what Shelby is doing—or whether he’s still alive—and it’s looking less likely that I’ll see the dawn.

  Sirens in the distance cut through the night. Miles must have called them. I knew he would.

  “Get to the van!” the lead thug yells. “We’re out of time!”

  The rush of men to the vehicle is a relief. I shift back to the center of the boxcar roof, keeping out of sight. If they flee, I might live through this.

  Another round of gunfire reminds me that reality hates my guts. I take one glance at the yard and curse under my breath. Shelby fires at the van as it peels away, hitting the tires and the driver with a few precise shots. The vehicle careens off its course and crashes into one of the steel freight containers, smashing up the engine block.

  Does the old codger want to die? It takes all my willpower to restrain myself from yelling, Just let them go, you idiotic kook!

  The fool keeps firing, building ire like he doesn’t care about his own well-being. When he runs out of ammo, he ejects his magazine and reloads within two quick seconds. He wields his weapon with the skill of an expert.

  That doesn’t protect him from getting shot, however.

  Shelby takes three bullets—one to the ribs, one to the arm, one to the shoulder—and then collapses to the dirt in a pool of his own free-flowing blood. When thugs come to finish him off, I take wild potshots over the edge of the boxcar. The men scatter and take cover before returning fire. On my third shot, I hear the click of an empty clip. That’s it. I’m spent.

  “We’re leaving!” someone yells.

  The roar and rev of motorcycles fills the area. I knew they had a backup plan.

  The men stop firing at me and Shelby and instead gather up whoever they can and take off. One thug runs by and spots the goon with the knee injury, curled up in the fetal position by the wheel of a boxcar. The thug takes one good look before leveling his handgun at the man’s head and pulling the trigger.

  No loose ends.

  As the sirens grow louder, so do the men. They squeal out of the rail yard at full tilt, leaving through the opposite gate and driving down the dirt roads normally reserved for railway workers. The dirt they kick up leaves me coughing, but I’m not about to complain. This is a better outcome than what I would have bet on.

  The moment I’m sure they’re gone, I step down onto the handholds, rubbing at my bruised hip. Without the rush of danger, my body feels every injury.

  Shelby isn’t far from me, and I jog over to his side. To my surprise, he’s still alive. I crouch down and examine him closer. Under his many layers, he’s wearing a cheap bulletproof vest. The bullet meant for his ribs is half-buried in the protective equipment.

  I grab the man’s jacket and pull him up, rage building with every breath. “You wore a vest?” I ask, my voice on the rise. “And you didn’t give me or Davis a warning as to what you were planning? You knew there would be danger! You knew that—”

  “Pierce,” he interjects. “Check the van. Make sure they’re okay.”

  Incredulous, I shake him by the collar, watching blood pump from the open bullet hole in his arm. “Are you even listening to me, old man? You better start talking!”

  “The van….” Shelby grunts and grits his teeth. His legs shake right before they give out. I let him fall to the dirt. He’s in bad shape and starts coughing heavily into his hand. Phlegm and spittle coat his palm a few seconds into his outburst.

  What a piece of shit. He’s the instrument of Davis’s death, and he almost killed me as well. What the fuck is in this van? Why does he care so much?

  I turn on my heel and march over, anger once again masking my pain. It’s dark, but the van is left broken in a spot of moonlight. I hustle to the back and lift the shutter door up, intent on finishing this as soon as possible. The crates are thrown around the back from the crash, some cracked open. I climb up into the back and walk over to the first broken container. I rip up the lid and spot a large refrigerator. No wonder it took those guys so long to haul these crates around.

  Curiosity gets the best of me. I reach down
and pop the door of the fridge container, half expecting to find drugs. The moment I get an eyeful of the contents, I jump back, stunned.

  I’ve seen all sorts of things smuggled and traded, but… the sight of two people catches me off guard.

  They’re crammed in the container, eyes sunken in and their skin cold. There’s no ice, but the fridge unit seems to keep the temperature set low. Their soft intakes of breath and warm exhales of mist tell me they’re alive, but their weak posture and half-lidded expressions say they’re heavily sedated. They don’t acknowledge my presence.

  I stare at the two jammed in the fridge and then pan my gaze around to the other crates. There are ten containers—do they have twenty people here? Goddamn sons of bitches.

  They’re wearing nothing but tags secured around their arms. I squint to read that each tiny scrap of paper lists their age, blood type, and a short medical history. Despite the darkness of the van, I can see the discoloration of bruises across all visible areas of their flesh. The raw smell of copper hints at the fresh blood sliding along the bottom of the fridge.

  The cruelty of man knows no bounds.

  I’ve seen a lot of guys die, and a lot of terrible things happen to good people, but this is a whole new shade of darkness I hadn’t mentally prepared myself for. The tags tell me everything—the people are here to be harvested for organs or shipped off as sex things. It’s sick and vile, and my stomach churns.

  I’ve never felt more relieved to hear the approach of sirens. The cops pull into the rail yard parking lot with their blue and red lights sweeping over the area. I hope they can help. Someone needs to bring these kids to a hospital, and fast.

  Shelby’s actions suddenly make a strange amount of sense. But how did he know what was going down tonight?

  CHAPTER TWO

  LIKE A hospital or a morgue, it’s never a good sign to see a busy police station.

  I glance around, nervous, and keep my hands deep inside my jacket pockets. The Joliet City Police Department swarms with uniformed officers, news reporters, and wide-eyed looky-loos who squeezed themselves into the front lobby. I stand behind the service counter, eyeing the front door and waiting like they told me to, but I’ll take any chance to leave that comes my way. No good can come from me being here.

  A man pushes his way through the crowd and walks straight up to the main counter. I’d recognize Miles no matter what, even in his hasty morning dress of sweatpants and a black wifebeater. Seeing him takes some of the weight off my shoulders.

  “Pierce,” he says the moment he spots me. “You’re okay!”

  “Yeah,” I reply.

  “I’ve been calling you for hours! I didn’t know which precinct they’d take you to. Why didn’t you answer?”

  I don’t much care for phones. I pull mine out of my pocket and see thirty-one missed calls, three text messages, and ten voicemails. I give Miles a sardonic half smile. “I was a little busy.”

  Without talking to the officer behind the counter, Miles effortlessly leaps over and closes the distance between us. Reporters protest and balk, and the officer in charge holds up a hand and shouts, “Hey!”

  “He’s with us,” I say, giving him a dismissive wave of my hand. “From the PI firm.”

  That’s not true, but I don’t care.

  Miles wraps his arms around me in a tight embrace, catching me off guard and causing me to tense. We’re chest-to-chest, his chin resting on my shoulder, before I regain my senses enough to shove him away. The officer behind the front counter gives me a You lying sack of shit glance that punctuates the whole scene.

  “Not here,” I growl, my volume low but my tone heated. “Not in the middle of all this.”

  “I’ve been worried about you.”

  “Everything is fine.”

  “The reporters are calling you all heroes. They say you saved twenty people.”

  Goddammit. I don’t want recognition of any kind. “We should avoid them and their cameras as much as possible.”

  Miles steps closer, leaving only inches between us. He stares at me with his dark hard-set eyes. I take in a short breath and exhale. The whole police department is filled with sounds of ringing phones, furious typing, and agitated people. It doesn’t help me relax.

  “Not here,” I repeat. I hate this place. Nothing about a police department makes me feel safe.

  “Why don’t we leave?”

  “Music to my ears. Let’s get outta here before—”

  A woman in a tight pencil skirt waves her hand near my face, cutting me off. “Sir?” she says, no patience in her tone. “The lieutenant will see you now.” She’s holding a mug of coffee but doesn’t offer it—she keeps it close, like a precious object.

  I hold back a sigh of irritation and return my attention to Miles. “I need to answer some questions. I’ll be right back. Then we’re leaving.”

  Miles replies with a curt nod, and I turn to follow the woman. The bustle of the station creates a white noise that drowns out footsteps and low-level thought. We’re at the lieutenant’s door before I know it, and I glance over my shoulder, unable to catch sight of Miles.

  The secretary opens a door labeled Lieutenant Rhett Walker and ushers me into the office. I step in and the lady follows, a smile widening across her face, before speaking in a singsong voice.

  “Hello, Lieutenant Walker. Here’s the private investigator you asked for.”

  The man standing behind the desk is hunched over, reading a stack of papers, but offers a quick nod. “Thank you, Monica. Keep trying to get ahold of Deputy Chief Charleston. I need to speak with him as soon as possible.”

  “Of course! Right away.” She walks over to the cluttered desk and holds up the mug of coffee with both hands. “It’s early. I thought you might need a pick-me-up.” She places it on the corner of the desk and continues, “I added some milk and cinnamon, just like you like it.”

  The lieutenant stops what he’s doing and straightens his posture. And now I understand what this lady is so wet in the panties for.

  Lieutenant Walker is a solid guy—taller and more muscular than I am, that’s for sure—and he holds himself with a confidence you can’t fake. His styled black hair and striking green eyes add together to make for a perfect model, and he wears his uniform like he was born for it. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he has the whole female population riding his nuts.

  I stare longer than I should.

  “Thank you, Monica,” Lieutenant Walker says, a distant disinterest to his voice. “I appreciate your forethought.”

  She smiles wider, if that’s even possible, and then backs out of the room, waving as she goes. I stifle a chuckle. The lust is thick. I can only imagine the things she does when they’re alone.

  “And thank you for waiting,” the lieutenant says, drawing me out of my musings. “Are you Michael Shelby?”

  I shake my head and stay close to the door. “I’m—” Nicholas Pierce is what I want to say, but that was my name before my new identity. It takes me half a second to remember my new, much less appealing name. “—I’m Percy Adams.”

  Percy Adams.

  What a terrible name.

  I didn’t have much of a choice, though, and Percy is at least mildly similar to Pierce, so much so that most people assume it’s my nickname rather than my given surname. I try not to think of it often, which might be why I almost forgot it.

  The lieutenant walks around the desk and gives me an odd scrutinizing look. “You’re Shelby’s trainee?”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “What of it?”

  My terse tone must not go over well with him, because he crosses his arms and regards me with a harsh seriousness. “What were you doing trespassing on private property?”

  “You’ll have to ask Shelby. I don’t decide what cases we work on.”

  “What did he say to you last night when you went to the North Union Rail Yard?”

  “He said, ‘Hey, you want a paycheck? We’re going to the North Union Rail Yard.’
Then I got in the car. The end.”

  Lieutenant Walker narrows his eyes. “My investigators say there’s evidence that you, Shelby, and his other trainee, confirmed dead earlier this morning, broke into the rail yard. Why don’t you tell me a little about that?”

  I force a laugh and shrug. “What is this? Shouldn’t you be a little more concerned with the kidnapping and trafficking? Who gives a fuck about trespassing? You really think a district attorney is going to prosecute hero detectives after they saved twenty people? I don’t think so.”

  “This isn’t about the trespassing,” he says, his fingers gripping into his arms, his knuckles turning white. “This is about the fact that Shelby has been involved in three separate instances of breaking the law in conjunction with this very same criminal activity. I’d like to know what’s going on and how Shelby got his information.”

  “That makes one of us,” I drawl.

  Lieutenant Walker lets out a long exhale and walks over to me. He relaxes a bit, dropping his crossed arms, and meets my gaze. “A man died tonight. This isn’t a laughing matter. Next time it could be you or Shelby.”

  “Shit happens.”

  He grits his teeth. “You don’t care at all?”

  “I don’t wanna die, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “But you’ll do whatever is asked of you—so long as you get a paycheck.”

  I let my silence do the talking.

  I know it’s a lowlife mentality, but it’s not like I have many options. I dropped out of high school, my mother is in prison, and my father killed himself drinking and driving. Not to mention my résumé includes a laundry list of corpses under the “references” portion. I can already hear the callbacks.

  Lieutenant Walker opens his mouth to speak but then stops and stares. I lift an eyebrow.

  “Have you ever been to the City of Noimore?” he asks.

  “Never,” I reply, probably a bit too hasty.

  “Not once? It’s a major metropolitan area. Most people drive through it when they take a trip to Chicago.”

  “I’m not most people.”