Page 61 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
“Please,” the boy begs, his teary eyes dropping to the ground as he cowers.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” Nero says in a way that’s nothing short of disconcerting, and the boy cowers with every move Nero makes. “You’re going to do something for me, David. And all will be forgiven.”
The boy nods rapidly, fear driving him to do and say anything.
“Good. You’re going to call Enrique Bianchi and tell him that you know there’s a delivery coming in tomorrow night. A big one. Brooklyn harbor. Dock twelve. Just after midnight.” He nods more vigorously now.
“Good.” Nero smiles. “I’ll ensure you’re well-compensated for your efforts.”
“I… He’ll kill me,” the kid stumbles.
Nero laughs. “Your cousin’s days are numbered, David. Do you want to be on the winning side, or…well, dead?”
Nero wordlessly hands him a burner phone, and a small whimper leaves him. “Call him.” Nero moves to the desk in the corner, scribbling something on a Post-It Note before handing it to the boy.
Wide hazel eyes flick from the note to the phone before he swallows heavily. His face washes white, and it’s clear for anyone to see he’s terrified.
Nero leans in close, speaking in the boy’s ear. “In case you’re wondering who you should be more scared of…it’s definitely me.”
When he pulls away, the boy is actually crying. I have to wonder why Enrique would plant someone so weak as a rat. Then again, he’s the last person anyone would expect for that exact reason.
“Now take a minute and pull yourself together. Do this, and no harm will come to you. You have my word.”
With shaking fingers, the boy types out a number on the keypad of the phone and presses it to his ear.
“I need to speak to Enrique,” he says. There’s a pause. “It’s urgent.”
Time ticks by, long minutes of silence, then I hear the low buzz of a voice on the end of the line. He looks down at the note in his hand. “You asked me to find out about any shipments coming in or out.” Another pause. “The day after tomorrow, the nineteenth, there’s a big one coming in, Brooklyn Harbor, dock twelve. After midnight.” He stops. “That’s all I know.”
In the silence, I can hear Enrique ask if they’ll be heavily armed.
The boy looks at Nero, who nods. “Of course, it’s Nero Verdi,” the kid says.
I give it to him; he’s convincing.
He hangs up and releases an uneven breath before placing the burner into Nero’s waiting palm.
Nero smiles and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Good. Well done, David.”
With that, we all file out of the room, and Nero locks the door behind him.
“The Russians will guard that delivery heavily. You know that. Bianchi’s men may never even get to it,” I say.
“They’re not going to. We are.” Nero grins, and it’s the look of a mad man.
“You’re going to steal from Ronan Cole?” I glance at Gio, seeing the same concern in his eyes. This is a fool’s errand.
“He’ll never even know. We’ll steal it, and Bianchi will steal from us the same night,” Nero says.
“I’m game,” Jackson says, digging into his pocket and taking out a box of mints. The huge man pops one into his mouth and grins before nudging me with his brawny arm. “Aw, come on, Russian. Live a little. You used to be such fun.” He laughs.
“I have never been fun.”
He snorts. “I know, that’s why it’s funny.”
Insane. They’re all insane. I miss when my life involved only rational people. But no, I chose this. I’m now questioning why exactly.
The harbor is huge, with twenty docks in total. Enormous cranes tower against the New York skyline, and though they look close, in reality, each dock is several hundred yards apart, with its own access. In the distance, a crane works, pulling shipping containers off a freight ship, stacked high. The colored containers look like Legos.
Dock twelve is almost dark, the only lights cast from the edge of the dock itself. We wait silently, hiding behind a stack of containers set back from the water’s edge. The city lights dance on the water, the distinctive buildings jutting into the darkness of the sky and illuminating it like a beacon.
After about an hour of waiting, just before eleven o’clock, a boat turns up. The small vessel looks out of place next to the enormous freight ships that flank it, their forms slumbering on the water.
The smaller boat cuts its engine and glides up to the dock silently. They don’t really need to be careful. Working for Ronan Cole is like an international brand of immunity. Even the DEA won’t touch him. Still, it’s always best not to draw attention. Men like Cole left to their power as long as that power isn’t a public debacle.
The boat docks, and a man jumps off, hitching it to several tie points. More men hit dry land, and I tilt my head, straining to hear them. The language of my homeland greets me, and I nod to Gio, where he lingers beside me.
