Page 12 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

OSCAR

I've been watching the building for twenty-three minutes, and not a single soul has entered or left.

That could be good or bad, depending on whether I'm walking into an ambush or a genuine meeting.

The neon sign from the convenience store across the street casts an eerie blue glow across my dashboard, illuminating the gun resting on my thigh.

“Alex, you copy?”

“Loud and clear, Oz,” Alex's voice crackles in my ear. “Perimeter's quiet. Too quiet, if you ask me.”

I check my watch. Ten o’clock on the dot. “Heading inside.”

The leather seat creaks as I shift, tucking the gun into my ankle holster as I step my left leg out of the car. I adjust my pants to cover it. I’ve never openly carried in front of Ricky and keeping that fact I am armed to the teeth with knives sheathed under my jacket hidden from him will be hard.

The night air hits me as I exit the car, carrying the faint scent of garbage and cigarettes. I scan the street one last time, noting the blind spots as I walk.

“Got a couple of heat signatures in the building,” Alex declares through my earpiece. “Only one on the third floor. Guessing that is your buddy, Ricky.”

The building's entrance reeks of piss and desperation. The security door's lock broken long ago, hanging uselessly from its housing. I push through, finding myself in a dimly lit lobby with peeling wallpaper and a bank of mailboxes, half of them hanging open like broken jaws.

No elevator. Of course.

The stairwell echoes with my footsteps despite my attempt to move quietly. Each floor I pass has its own distinct scent –cooking spices on the first and marijuana on the second. By the time I reach the third floor, the scent has shifted to something chemical, acrid.

The hallway stretches before me, lit by dim fluorescents that cast sickly silhouettes across the faded carpet. Apartment 3B is at the far end. I approach cautiously.

Three sharp knocks on the door. I wait, counting my heartbeats.

Nothing.

I knock again, harder this time.

Still nothing. Unease crawls up my spine as I reach for the handle, thankful for the leather gloves that will conceal my prints. The knob turns without resistance, and the door swings inward on silent hinges.

“Door's open. Heading in.” I leave it cracked behind me as I slip inside. A quick escape route if things go south. "

“Talon is switching positions. I can see you. The other heat signature is straight ahead of you. Off to the left a bit. It’s not reading as hot as the other one.”

Well, that can’t be good.

The apartment is dim, illuminated only by the glow of a single lamp in the corner. The place reeks of stale cigarettes and something else—something iron tinged that makes my stomach clench.

That scent—there’s no mistaking it— it's fresh blood.

I draw my gun as I scan the living room. Furniture overturned, drawers emptied onto the floor, pictures smashed. Someone tore this place apart looking for something. “I think I might know why the other signature wasn’t as hot. I smell blood.”

I edge left, gun raised, following the strengthening iron scent around a partial wall divider. My boot connects with something solid, and I glance down.

“Fuck.”

Ricky lies sprawled on his back. His shirt is now crimson, soaked through with blood still seeping from multiple stab wounds across his chest and abdomen. The pool beneath him spreads across the cheap laminate flooring, dark and viscous.

“Alex, Ricky's down. Multiple stab wounds.”

“Is he alive?”

I drop to my knees beside him, pressing my hand against the worst of the wounds, though I know it's clear he is hanging on by a thread. His blood is warm and slick between my fingers, but his skin is cooling and his chest barely rising.

“Ricky, who did this? Who was here?” I demand, leaning close to his face.

His lips move, bubbles of blood forming at the corners of his mouth. The gurgling sound from his throat sends ice through my veins. He's drowning in his own blood.

“Stay with me,” I hiss, tapping his cheek with my free hand. “Focus. Who did this to you?”

His eyes drift, then lock onto mine with sudden clarity. His bloody hand shoots up, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength.

“C-Collector,” he chokes out, the name clear despite the wetness in his voice.

“What about the Collector?” I stop myself before I shake the dying man before me. He has minutes, if that, left based on the blood pooling around him. I need fucking answers. “Come on, Ricky. Tell me what you know.”

His lips part again, but this time only blood spills out. The grip on my wrist slackens as the light fades from his eyes, pupils dilating until they're almost black. One final, rattling breath escapes his lungs, and then...nothing.

“Fuck!” I slam my fist against the floor, blood spattering across my sleeve. “Goddammit!”

“Oz? What's happening?” Alex's voice cuts through my rage.

“Ricky's dead.” I stand, blood dripping from my gloves, creating a macabre pattern on the floor. “Said something about the Collector before he died.”

“Shit.” Alex pauses. “I'm landing the drone now and coming to you. Don't touch anything else. Two minutes.”

I scan the apartment again, careful not to disturb the scene more than I already have. The sound of footsteps in the hallway alerts me. I shift my position, drawing my gun from my ankle holster, until Alex's familiar silhouette appears in the doorway.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, gloved hands pulling the door closed behind him. He scans the room before settling on Ricky's corpse.

Alex crouches beside the body, tilting his head as he examines the wounds. His latex-covered fingers hover over but don't touch the torn fabric of Ricky's shirt.

“Military-grade combat knife,” he says, his voice clinical.

“Serrated edge, probably six inches. Look at the entry wounds—clean initial puncture with jagged tearing on the exit.” He points to a particularly nasty wound near Ricky's sternum.

“Whoever did this knew exactly where to strike for maximum damage.”

“He didn’t stand a chance,” I say, the sharp scent of blood growing more suffocating with each breath.

Alex's fingers ghost over Ricky's wrist. “Still warm. Blood hasn't fully congealed. We missed them by minutes, Oz. Maybe ten minutes, tops.”

“I was outside for twenty minutes, Alex. I didn’t see anyone come or go from the building.”

“They knew another way out,” Alex says, crossing to the kitchen. He pulls back a tattered curtain, revealing a metal escape ladder just beyond the window. “This building backs onto an alley.”

I move closer, careful not to touch the broken glass as I peer down. The narrow structure glints faintly in the moonlight—an exit, if we’re quick.

“There’s a back way down,” Alex confirms. “Leads straight to the alley. Talon?”

“Already scanning,” comes the response through our comms. “Alley’s clear. No movement.”

“Shit,” I growl.

“Talon is set up at the front of the building. He could have missed whoever did this when he was getting into position.”

“And you didn’t catch it with your drone?” I ask.

“Other people live here, Oz. It’s not like the killer had a bright red X painted on them.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, forcing myself to think through the anger. The Collector would never reveal himself like this. An associate, on the other hand, is more likely.

“Where’s his phone?” Alex asks before returning to Ricky’s cooling body. “Help me check his pockets.”

I kneel beside him, careful to avoid the pool of blood. I pat down Ricky's jacket pockets–empty. Front pants pockets yield nothing but a crumpled receipt and some loose change. Back pockets–also clear.

“Nothing. Not even a wallet.”

Alex carefully turns the body, checking for anything we might have missed. “Whoever killed him probably took his phone. They didn't want us finding whatever information he was going to share.”

“Can you track it?” I ask, wiping blood from my gloves onto a clean section of Ricky's shirt. “With his number, I mean.”

Alex shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “Unlikely, but I can try. Ricky doesn't strike me as the type to pay for a proper phone. Probably uses a burner.”

“Worth a shot,” I say, standing up and surveying the apartment again.

Alex snaps his fingers suddenly. “Call his phone.”

“What?”

“Call Ricky's phone. Maybe he stashed it somewhere before he got jumped.”

I nod, seeing the logic. Removing my bloodied gloves, I carefully tuck them in my back pocket before retrieving my own phone. I scroll through my contacts, finding Ricky's number.

I hit dial, and we both freeze, listening intently.

Three seconds pass. Four. Five.

Then I hear it—a distinct vibration, muffled but unmistakable, coming from somewhere in the apartment.

“There,” Alex declares, tilting his head toward the sound.

The vibration continues as we follow the noise to the kitchen. It's coming from inside a cabinet beneath the sink. Alex pulls it open, revealing a trash can with a false bottom. He reaches in, carefully extracting the phone.

“Clever bastard.”

Alex passes me the device. The screen is locked, but the notification of my call is visible. I end the call and examine the phone—a cheap burner for sure.

“Can you crack it?”

“Yeah, but not here. I’ll have to take it with us.”

Alex pockets Ricky’s phone into his back pocket and reaches into his jacket. I watch as he pulls out another pair of latex gloves. Always prepared, that's Alex. He snaps them on with practiced efficiency.

“I’m going to roll him onto his back. I need you to take a couple of pictures.”

My eyebrow arches. “Why?” The last thing I need is a picture of a dead man’s face and hands on my phone. “Please tell me you haven’t gone down that serial killer path again and you want to add this to your collection.”

“Facial and fingerprint recognition, asshole. You don’t even know if Ricky is his real name.”

“You think he was using an alias?” I ask, pocketing my phone.