Page 4 of Colton’s Secret Identity

The two criminals he was about to meet were minions of Bill aka “Rex” Romo, who was second only to the kingpin Julio “Slim” Lopez, whom this entire operation revolved around. Slim was the man everyone wanted in cuffs, his drug distribution network dismantled. Rex was one of Slim’s top distributors. Which made it highly likely that the approaching two henchmen—henchpersons—were the enemy, sent to take him out, and not two creeps who wanted to make their own pile of dough on the side.

Dealers wanted to be kingpins and kingpins wanted to stay kingpins. Sharing wasn’t in a drug kingpin’s or dealer’s DNA. Nor in the makeup of their minions. Hawk was a threat to Rex, pure and simple. Yeah, he wished like hell he’d given the task force a heads-up on this.

Too late.

Dylan made a mental note of each weapon on his person, from the FN Five-seveN in his back waistband to the Glock 21 in his left boot and the folding knife he’d tucked in his right sock. Scar and Slash held their AR-15s across their chests for now, a signal to their guests that Hawk believed the meeting to be friendly. But they’d open fire at the least prompting from him. The stooges were each prone to shoot first, shrug their shoulders later if their target had been unnecessarily taken out. Guilt wasn’t in their wheelhouse.

Dylan sucked in a deep breath, honed his gaze on the woman at the wheel, his fingers already craving the smooth grip of his pistol, his mind calculating where he’d hit her to protect himself. He wasn’t worried about the short dude in the passenger seat—Hank—as his stooges would kill him off without hesitation. But they might pause to drink in what was quickly becoming evident a beautiful woman before they fired.

Dylan had no such distractions. No matter how nice they appeared on the outside, drug traffickers were nothing more to him than another target to bring down, arrest and send off for the system to mete out the justice they deserved. But first, they had to be captured, preferably alive so that intelligence could be gathered. Which meant he had to stay alive, too.

Dylan widened his stance infinitesimally, preparing for battle.

“No one shoot until I give the word.”

Veronica gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead through her smudged, overlarge sunglasses as she ignored the way her stomach was flipping. She knew what she was doing, and it wasn’t the first time she’d faced down dangerous players while working undercover for Stark County.

But her previous undercover assignments seemed like child’s play in comparison to this. Her past tasks had been straightforward. Posing as a sex worker, she’d helped put three different human traffickers behind bars. As a barista in a coffee shop that was in fact a front for money laundering, she’d contributed to the intelligence collection efforts against the very large drug ring she, or rather, Monique, worked for now.

Perspiration dripped from under her wig, into her eyes. She blinked, grateful for the waterproof mascara she’d applied over the false eyelashes. You’re Monique Patterson, nightclub boss and drug dealer.

Meeting with a possible rival, someone who wanted to takeover Rex’s territory, would bring an end to Stark County law enforcement’s operation against the drug runners much sooner than any of them had hoped. Sheriff Colton was going to be thrilled to hear that their operation might become a twofer, as in they’d get Rex and this Hawk person at the same time.

“Boss! Slow down and pull over before they shoot us!” Hank squealed out the words over the music she had blaring and slunk down in the passenger seat. What a coward.

“You said they want to play ball. They can’t afford to shoot us,” she shouted back. At least not until she or Hank gave these dealers what they were looking for. Which she’d make sure they didn’t. Or rather, that Hank didn’t.

Forcing a bravado she knew she’d laugh about over beers with her RGPD colleagues later, Veronica jerked the wheel to the left, forcing the ancient Escalade to tip up on two wheels before crashing back down on all four. She screeched to a halt inches from the two men armed with AR-15s, the nearest of whom jumped back and away from her path. Thank goodness she’d convinced her brother to sell her this hunk of junk for next to nothing. She’d taken the Escalade to a field and fired bullets into it, thrown rocks at it, messed it up to look like she’d survived plenty of tough situations before showing up to the interview to be the nightclub manager for Frisky.

She counted four targets total. Two men stood up front, still holding their AR-15s across their chests in a show of restraint. That might not last long. There was no doubt the motley guards were loaded for bear, judging by the spare mags bulging from their vest pockets. A third punk stood several yards behind them, similarly armed, providing backup for the fourth man, who stood in the center of their perimeter. The central target didn’t appear armed at all. He had to be Hawk Masters, the man Hank insisted wanted to do business with them. Hawk probably had his own arsenal of weapons strategically placed and out of sight on his person. He’d be as battle-ready as his henchmen. Because drug running was a lethal, ruthless business with stakes incomprehensible to outsiders. Millions upon millions of dollars could be at stake during a single, widespread trafficking operation.

She didn’t care about the dollar amount, though. Never had.

Veronica cared about the millions of victims. Thousands in Stark County over the last five years. Hundreds in Red Grove. One from her family.

Tawny.

Straightening her spine, she shoved aside thoughts of how she’d tell first Sheriff Colton, followed by RGPD Captain Brady, that she’d caught a grizzly in the task force’s muskrat trap, so to speak. But first she had to land this deal with Hawk without being executed on the spot by his posse.

In Veronica’s experience, the visible gun carriers fired first, explained their trigger happiness to their boss later. As much as her nerves made her insides quake, she had to move deliberately, slowly. Without any hesitation that could be misconstrued as either fear or a threat to Hawk. She reached for her large leather tote and pulled out the candy-apple-red lip gloss that she’d never wear as Veronica. Flipping down the visor to use the mirror, she swiped the crimson shine onto her lips. Only Monique could pull off the flashy hue that sharply contrasted her dark silk blouse.

“As soon as you’re done, boss—”

“Save it, Hank, and don’t make a move without my express order. Got it?” She snapped the visor back up, threw the gloss back into the bag.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Showtime.

Chapter 3

Dylan watched the Escalade’s near flip with interest. Whoever was driving sure wanted to impress Hawk Masters. Slash jumped when the tires screeched. Standing several feet in front of Dylan, he tried to cover up his reaction by looking back over his shoulder and pointing at the Escalade. “Who the hell does she think she is?”

Dylan made a circular gesture with his hand that indicated Slash needed to turn back around and keep his eyes on their guests. Or else.

Dylan wondered the same as Slash, though. Just who did this woman think she was, driving up to a drug kingpin like this? As he watched, the passenger—Hank, no doubt—debarked from the vehicle first. The man had to hang on to the doorframe to lower his booted feet to the asphalt. He was dressed head to toe in what Dylan thought of as “wannabe cowboy.” There didn’t appear to be a lick of muscle on the dude, so he wasn’t a real cowboy of any type. Rather, he dressed to impress his importance upon his drug-running peers.

But Dylan’s attention didn’t linger on the man after Slash stepped forward and began to pat him down. He let his gaze rest on the driver, who turned out to be a long, tall, curvy drink of water. As she slowly approached, the woman’s facial features became clearer. Her lips were full and undeniably sexy with that sexy red lipstick. The short hairstyle was decidedly feminine but with an edge. Her clothing left little to the imagination—heaven help him, he’d gone too long without a date—as it fit better than his custom Kevlar vest, showcasing her killer bod. She had breasts that pushed against the black blouse, straining the top button that was strategically in the same spot as her deep cleavage. The tight skirt showed off flat abs, and with a hem that ended no more than a palm’s width below her crotch, revealed solid thighs like those of a devoted runner. Her thigh-high boots covered the rest of her legs but he had no doubt they were equally lust-triggering. A sudden mental image of another pair of legs, also athletic, flashed. Except the woman in his mind wore RGPD PT gear, running next to him during their weekly six-milers.