Page 51

DRIVER STOOD OVER the dead kid in the forest and felt old. Maybe it was the vision of the young construction worker lying twisted in the leaves, the gaping hole in his chest and his surprised expression, that was making Driver feel the years he had under his belt that this kid would never have. Maybe it was the adrenaline draining from his system after a night spent madly organizing the stealthy shutdown and evacuation of four of his drug labs, a stash house, and a distribution center from inside properties being stripped and reclad.

Moving a drug lab was a lot of work. He couldn’t risk just having his guys load up the packages and drive them off. Not now, while the heat was on. He’d had to arrange for other members of his crew to get into road accidents, pub brawls, violent domestic arguments to tie up the local cops and sheriffs, keep the roads clear of curious patrols. Then there was the decision he had to make about where to stash his operation until this Shauna Bulger woman could be found. Driver had just been thinking he’d get a good breakfast in and catch a twenty-minute nap in his truck when the gimp in the wheelchair and the washed-up ex-cop had killed two of his men and ruined his morning.

Now this.

Driver’s head hurt and his bones ached. Maynard and Doller, his guys from the dock, were standing nearby awaiting orders, cigarettes cupped in their palms against the wind.

“I don’t even know this kid’s name,” Driver said.

“Spitts,” Maynard said. He gestured to the corpse with his cigarette. “Regi Spitts’s brother. Regi started him a couple of weeks ago, just watching over a couple of corner boys over in Georgetown. Must have come over when he heard you was looking for the Bulger woman.”

“Well,” Driver sighed, pulling out his own cigarette. “He found her.”

Driver’s phone dinged. He looked at the screen, which was still full of unanswered call notifications. Driver vaguely remembered the phone going off while his men collapsed from the drugs in their saltshaker. He opened the message. It was from a guy manning one of his houses in west Gloucester.

5-0, the message read.

Cops had arrived.

Driver sent a thumbs-up. Let the sheriff search the house. Sheriff Clay Spears was a resident of the inn where Bill Robinson lived. Driver imagined the sheriff would be hitting all of his properties that day, looking for drugs or paraphernalia. News would filter soon enough to the residents who had hired Driver’s crews to reclad their houses. If Driver thought his phone was blowing up now, he dreaded the calls that were to come from concerned citizens hearing rumors that their homes were being used for criminal activity.

“This Bulger woman,” Driver said, “is the biggest pain in my ass I’ve had in decades.”

The men nearby listened, nodding, wanting to smirk but unsure if it was safe to. Driver bent and searched the Spitts boy’s pockets for his belongings. He found a wallet in his back pocket, but nothing else.

A footstep in the woods behind them made all three men turn. Driver didn’t pull his gun. He didn’t need to. Both his men had the woman in the sights of their pistols far quicker than he ever could. He didn’t recognize the good-looking Hispanic woman approaching with her hands up, palms out. But the buzzcut and the fact that she’d managed to get within ten feet of them without being heard said to Driver she was either military or a cop.

“I come in peace,” she called out, offering a pained smile.

“Who the hell are you?” Driver asked.

“I’m a friend,” Karli Breecher said. “I want something from inside the inn just as badly as you do.”