Under Cover by Amy Lane

Author:Amy Lane [Lane, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-64108-564-9
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2023-01-31T00:00:00+00:00

CROSBY SPENT part of the next day getting shit for the flop—an extra blanket, his own fucking socks, underwear, sweats, and T-shirts, as well as toiletries and, please God, a couple of books to kill the time when he wasn’t trying to die—and familiarizing himself with his surroundings. He knew where the bodega was, knew where the food trucks camped out, knew where the dealers lurked and where the school was and on which corners the cops hung out. By the end of the day, he retired to his flop, legs aching pleasantly from walking all day, secure in the knowledge that he knew which hiding places to run to and which ones were flat-out traps, and that he could find a bus stop and a train stop on a dime.

And that he knew how to avoid the cops, because God knew which side they’d be on.

Garcia had been texting him throughout the day, keeping him updated on the investigation. And on his day.

God, Chadwick’s coffee. Lifegiving. After stepping up like a badass at the precinct, it’s almost criminal that we depend on him for coffee too.

He’d sent the video of the precinct, and Crosby had watched it in the bathroom at McDonald’s while he was getting breakfast, his blood running cold. Oh God, it had been such a trap. How could he not have known he was sending Garcia into a meat grinder?

I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have had you do that. He shuddered, thinking of what could have happened. I’m such a fucking meatloaf.

Bullshit. You had me call Harding. I wouldn’t have otherwise—saved me and Toby like a boss.

Crosby swallowed and tried to pull his shit together. He knew better than to let this anxious, awful feeling overwhelm him. What—he finally had something good in his life, something his, and he had to lose his mind about keeping it?

He’d fucking keep it all right.

With a deep breath, he remembered all the good things that came from working with Garcia.

Tell me about the dead assholes. One of them was McEnany’s nephew—that might be a good angle.

Ooh—see, we didn’t know that. All we got was five guys, ages 21-35. Hard living—bad livers, bad skin, bad teeth—one guy had nth stage syphilis.

Nice.

Elsa got that one in hand-to-hand—I think she’s still in the shower.

Poor kid. Crosby smiled. He could hear Gail bitching now. How’s Toby?

Shook. Not gonna lie. You saw the video—he got beat pretty bad, but he’s mostly worried about you. How’re you?

And he wanted to spill everything. He’d never asked for undercover gigs, had known he’d suck at most of ’em. Couldn’t hide a damned thing with his face. This was a tightrope, and he was wearing his God-given cement shoes.

Shook. Not gonna lie. But I need to tell you—Jimmy Creedy is the guy who runs this division of the Sons and has headquarters in a flop three floors down from mine. McEnany claimed Creedy sent those guys to die. Don’t think I was supposed to hear that—I bailed on the convo.

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