One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(9)

“On it.” Russell flies into my line of sight, grabs a black duffle, and disappears back into the warehouse as Jeremy speaks up.

“I got the first crate open . . . What the fuck? Tyler, over here.”

“Eleven minutes. Tyler, talk to me.”

More shuffling ensues, the sounds of the crates being pried open coming through my speakers as Sean appears poolside on Roman’s camera as Cecelia emerges from doing laps. Denny speaks up, stealing my focus. “Got another one . . . fuck, these can’t be real.”

It’s Tyler’s reaction that has me tensing. “Jesus Christ. These are military-grade, and they sure as fuck aren’t toys.”

Russell sounds just as shaken when he tosses in. “You sure this is Spencer’s warehouse?”

My patience thins out. “Eight minutes,” I snap. “Talk to me.”

Tyler speaks up. His voice strained with barely concealed fury. “We’ve got six crates of M9s and M fucking 16s, man. Along with bulletproof vests and enough ammunition to take out ten goddamn city blocks. Guns no fucking CEO of any freight company should ever be able to get his hands on without the right connections.”

Tyler makes it a point to walk just outside the bay door and looks up at the camera, at me, his warning clear. “By connections, I mean my fucking type. This is above our paygrade for the moment, and if these do belong to Spencer, he fucked up using a flashlight cop to guard this place because whoever these do belong to isn’t going to let it go when they find out they’re missing. What’s your call?”

Mind racing, I ready myself for a deep dive as I open my second screen and begin typing. “Take the bulk of the guns and send me everything on them. I’m going to see if I can get a line on who’s in the market to buy and which piggy has them for sale.”

Tyler jumps into the back of his van and begins to dump the contents of six large black duffle bags before he turns and barks orders into the warehouse. “Get the fuck over here!”

“Five minutes,” I bark, logging in on my second screen. Jeremy, Russell, Peter, and Denny leap into my visual, joining Tyler as he passes out the empty duffels while doling out frantic orders. “Guns only. Leave the crates we haven’t opened and switch the bottoms with the tops so they look untouched. Not a single fucking box looks out of place. I’ll sweep up, GO!”

Jeremy and Denny appear first with bulked-out duffle bags and load them into their vans as Tyler, Russell, and Peter load the remaining vans.

Clicking on the street view of the main road, I spot the security car half a mile away and give Layla the heads up. “Incoming, lady bird, stand by.”

Layla gives me a fast reply, pulling up her tailgate to take her wheel. “Ready.”

“Out of time,” I clip as Tyler shuts the bay door, locking it from inside the way he found it. In seconds he reappears from behind the camera, leaping into his van. All three vans fire up and line up, flying toward the gate—a gate that takes fifteen seconds to open and close. Seconds we might not have.

“Lady bird,” I say as the car draws a quarter mile away, “if you could pull out slowly in front of him to buy us a few more seconds, we’d appreciate it.”

“On it,” she says as I clip out my order to the rest of them. “As soon as you can clear that gate, floor it. I want you half a fucking mile in front of the mall cop . . . Layla, now.”

The blare of a horn sounds as the mall cop lays on it while Layla cuts him off and plays her part, laying on her southern accent. “I’m so sorry. It’s my first time driving this big truck!”

“Get the hell out of the way, lady!”

When the gate opens just enough, all three vans gun out of the parking lot, speeding in the opposite direction.

“Good job, lady bird,” I say, watching the gate creep toward closed, heart thundering in my chest from the adrenaline rush.

“Anything for my boys,” Layla replies fondly.

“If you truly mean that,” Jeremy speaks up as if it’s an offer. A second later, we’re all privy to a pained grunt. “. . . ouch, Jesus Christ, Denny, I’m driving! Such a jealous man.”

Jeremy continues to torture Denny as I tighten my fists, breath bated. “I was simply going to ask for a little trim . . . a haircut! Fuck! Layla, you do know you’re marrying a Neanderthal, right?”

Layla laughs. “Counting down the days. See you at home, baby,” she says to Denny before she signs off.

The security car appears seconds later and painstakingly waits for the archaic gate to open before leisurely turning into the warehouse parking lot.

“All clear,” I report through all lines.

“Fucking hell. That was too close,” Tyler rasps out.

Jeremy pipes up, spluttering more bullshit. “I swear to God, it feels like my balls just shrank a little . . . or maybe they grew. Denny, take a look.”

“Jeremy,” Denny grunts in his zero-bullshit tone, “you whip anything out, we both die today.”

Shaking my head with a grin, I keep the amusement out of my order. “Get to the compound. Denny, put these deep underground.”

“Will do.”

Shoulders sagging with relief, I toss my earpiece as the news pops up as programmed on one of my screens. Killing it, I check the message Tyler texted about the guns we just lifted, hoping I made the right call as I prepare to descend into another rabbit hole to find out what the fuck Spencer is into—happy I’m nowhere in Tyler’s current vicinity. Right about now, the magnitude of what we just discovered is hitting him, and the fact that dirty military—his Achilles heel—may be involved has me shooting up a silent prayer for those around him.