Page 34 of Midnight Curfew

Prove himself…

I smile to myself as drops pummel my head. If Callum’s the best he can throw at us, I think we got it.

Opening the door of my ’93 Supra, I toss my bag onto Trace’s lap and climb into the driver’s seat, quickly ducking out of the fat drops. “Fuck,” I growl, wiping water off my face as I slam the door.

Iron swings the truck around, nodding at us out the window as he passes in front of my car.

I press the clutch and the brake, starting the engine.

“Are we in a full-blown tropical storm or some shit?” Trace dumps my bag in the back seat.

I flip on the wipers and shift into first. “It’ll fizzle out by midnight,” I tell him.

Hitting the gas, I ease off the clutch and speed through the empty spot in front of me to an early dinner and a nap before the liquor run tonight.

As I leave, I scan the lot. “The worst is still coming.”

—

Seven hours later, I’m sitting at the wheel of a box truck on a dirt road as Macon, Iron, Trace, Rip, Tyson, and a couple of others carry boxes on their shoulders off the airboats, up the docks, and through the heavily wooded area.

The vehicle under me rocks as they walk up the ramp and stack everything. There’s got to be a better way to do this. We’re here too long doing the transfer. We never had a problem getting our own liquor for Mariette’s bar, but once Trace opened his own pub in St. Carmen, the city did everything to stall us. First with the liquor license, then with getting a distributor. Once we found someone who would supply us, they overcharged.

So we brought in our own. Smuggled onto ships from other ships to cruise ships to ports in Miami and New Orleans. Then it was stowed away onto trucks, and since there are only limited ways to get in and out of St. Carmen, Army had the great idea to put it on air boats and float it across the swamps to Sanoa Bay. We only intended to do it until St. Carmen got off our ass, but we still couldn’t beat the prices. It took no time for other establishments to get word and start buying under the table from us, and the city’s not going to fuck with their own business owners.

The only real time of risk for us personally is getting it from the swamps to the storehouse at the pub.

Sweat trickles down my back as the rain slows to sprinkles.

“How’s it looking?” Army asks.

I glance at my phone—on speaker—as Macon charges past the truck and back to the boats.

“On schedule,” I tell him. “You?”

“All clear.”

It’s been more useful than I anticipated, having a cop in the family. We have him parked just over the canal, across the tracks, where we’ll be passing into St. Carmen soon.

“Unusually quiet tonight, actually,” he adds.

I shift in my seat, trying not to dwell on how that sounds suspicious.

Our guys continue to load the trucks, Iron’s arms far exceeding the capacity of his old T-shirts as he carries a box on each shoulder.

“You need to talk to Macon,” I tell Army. “He shouldn’t be here.”

If shit goes down, the head of our family—and our leases, bank accounts, and deeds—needs to be safe.

“You know him.” I hear Army light a cigarette. “He’s not going to ask others to put themselves on the line when he won’t.”

“Well, if he gets arrested, I’m counting on you or Iron to take care of his wife, because I’m not doing it.”

He chuckles. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t love those shower steamers she stocks in the bathrooms.” He sucks in a drag of smoke, and I hear him exhale. “And how she coached you on exactly what to say to every member of the school board in order to get that job.”

I avert my eyes as if he can see me. “She’s useful,” I mutter.

“I really think you’d rather go back to fucking Aracely than touch Krisjen.”