Still not someone I’d want to meet in the dark, he thought, then gave the ramp onto the riverboat a cautious look. He wasn’t sure whether he should go into the casino or not. He was hoping he’d find Scott King on duty tonight, because he’d been unsuccessful in finding the casino’s security manager’s home address. He hadn’t been able to find anything at all on Scott King, actually. Which he supposed was understandable for a guy in the security industry. They were paranoid bastards. Grant did the taxes for a security firm, and getting them to reveal anything was like pulling teeth.

But even if he didn’t get to talk to either Scott King or Richard Fischer, he might meet someone who’d seen Wesley. Still, he hesitated. If those guys were to be believed, something was about to go down.

Grant wondered what they knew. Following his gut with Dawn Daley had yielded information, so he followed his gut again, pivoting to follow the men to their vehicle.

He got close enough to see them get into a dark SUV and begin driving away.

He turned back to the riverboat, but froze at the sound of sirens. Yeah, those guys know something, and that something’s going down right now.

Slowly he backtracked to his own car, not wanting to attract the attention of the police. If Wes was okay, he was involved in something very wrong. Something that required him to sell heroin and keep an unregistered gun in his home safe. Alerting the police could, at best, land Wes in prison. At worst, it could blow his Blake Emerson cover, putting him squarely in the sights of those he’d gone to such lengths to infiltrate.

And if the cops haul Wes out of the casino in handcuffs?

Grant guessed he’d be looking for a good attorney. He hoped like hell he’d be looking for a good attorney. And not an undertaker.

He watched, heart in his throat, as uniformed officers stormed the casino’s entrance. They were carrying assault rifles. What happened to you, Wesley?

Bridgetown, Ohio
Sunday, March 17, 10:45 p.m.

Diesel strode into his house, conscious of Stone closing the door behind them. They hadn’t spoken after Diesel had asked Stone to drive him here. They’d been friends long enough for Stone to know when to back off and just be there.

Stone slumped in the chair opposite Diesel’s desk, watching silently as Diesel pulled his laptop from the safe and started it up. “Scott King and Cincinnati,” Diesel muttered as he typed the name into the search engine he always started with when doing a background check.

He frowned as he scanned the results, which included the individuals’ most recent DMV photos. “Nobody matches.”

“Could he be disguised?” Stone asked. “It’d be easy enough to wear a wig to cover his bald head.”