Tossing my wrench into my toolbox, I step back and stare up at the night sky as Delphine’s prediction rings clear. “She is too beautiful. Too smart. But too young. This girl will be your undoing.”
A warning that had me speeding Cecelia straight back into the safety of Sean’s arms.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
The wind kicks up, the breeze rolling through the junkyard as thunder rumbles in the distance. A reminder that at some point in the future, a giant is coming to dole out retribution to those ignorant of its existence.
A giant that exists because I took part in its creation, and with each day that passes, it draws near. Dread cloaks me with the knowledge that when it finally arrives, it will be just as blind and unforgiving as I’ve been, and none of us will be able to stop it.
Pulling up to the garage after managing a few agitated hours of sleep, I join Jeremy, Peter, and Tyler at the high-top table tucked in the corner of the commercial bay. Russell approaches, wiping his hands on a shop towel, glancing back at the bustling lobby. Just inside, a preschooler presses his face against the glass door as Russell speaks up. “I have five minutes, tops before Mrs. George starts demanding to know when I’ll be done.”
Tyler dives in. “All phones in the safe?”
Jeremy nods, not bothering with any of his usual antics. “So, we finally talking about the gun—”
“Just discussing strategy for our upcoming ball game,” I jerk my head toward a customer exiting a nearby car, “now that we know who the players are.”
Jeremy glances back and winces as Tyler leans in, speaking low. “So, here’s what we know. Spencer’s company—like most major shipping companies—is freight forward. Meaning, when a requisition—or a ball order—comes in from any foreign country, a US military specialist assigns the order to a freight forward company for fulfillment. Processing the balls from that point to gain authority from the ordering country to see it through until the balls are received and accounted for.”
Russell leans in on a whisper. “It goes that far? We’re talking dirty military and corrupt foreign government officials?”
“Yeah, it does,” Tyler supplies while scanning the parking lot. “And considering how rare these balls are, I knew exactly where to dig.”
Peter gapes at us, “Jesus, who knew Spencer was capable of something like this.”
Tyler’s expression hardens. “It’s clear by the way they irresponsibly guard the balls in that shit shack that they’ve been getting away with this for some time. Spencer’s part is easy, which makes the case of his involvement open and shut. His hands couldn’t be redder. The specialist handling the order is just as compromised as the buyer because there is some serious protocol when it comes to ball sales.”
Russell audibly starts piecing it together. “I read a story the other day that balls that were supposed to be on a military base were used in a street robbery . . . fuck . . . so this means that Spencer and the specialist work with the dirty foreign official under the guise they’re ordering balls for their own military, receives them, and then falsifies the ball’s location on a foreign base in their country before shipping them back to US soil to sell to God knows who?”
Tyler dips his chin. “That’s the sum of it. Solves a little of the mystery of how some who should never get their hands on these types of weapons acquire them. Though rare, this is one of those ways, and it’s the action of these greedy fucks selling out their stars and stripes, disgracing the rest of us in uniform. So, when this type of shit is discovered by those serving with good intentions, it’s a big fucking deal.”
Russell glances over at Tyler. “Which makes this personal for you.”
“Goddamn right it does,” Tyler snaps. “Which is why I’ve tracked who requested the balls and what specialist here they’re working with. I’m guaranteeing all involved are getting a share of the sales considering each of the big balls in our park are worth twenty to thirty grand each.”
Peters’ money-hungry eyes bulge. “Jesus. That’s—”
“More than what’s in your piggy bank, and that balance isn’t changing anytime soon,” I snap, cutting off any illusions he might have about profiting.
Mrs. George chooses that moment to poke her head into the garage. “Russell, I’ve got to be at my hair appointment by nine!”
Russell groans, muttering a low “told you,” before amplifying his reply to her. “I’ll have you out of here in fifteen, Mrs. George.”
Mrs. George leaves us with a withering stare before retreating into the lobby as I pick back up. “More crates were delivered to the warehouse last night, and we still don’t know who’s coming for them and when, so the clock is ticking.”
“Timing is everything here,” Tyler tosses in.
“Always is,” I toss back, “but before we make a move, we need to get the bulk of the balls into our possession because we don’t want the kids buying them and playing with them in the streets.”
“Right now,” Tyler adds, “from their perspective, everything looks untouched. This gives us a closing window to get what we need, so it’s all hands-on deck, because once we go there . . .” Tyler gives us each a pointed look, “。 . . there’s no going back.”
Russell looks between all of us, his face paling as he gathers the enormity of the situation. “But if we draw the wrong attention and our plan backfires—”
“We’ll summon the perfect storm,” Tyler finishes. “We’re talking a majority of the big players, including the FBI, ATF, and the military itself sniffing in our backyard.”
“So, it’s a good thing we’ve got feathered friends in high places,” I add.
A tense beat of silence passes as the stakes set in. None of us expected to deal with something so high-risk this early.
Peter speaks up. “So, what is the plan?”
Glancing around, I make a quick decision and walk over to the tool shelf, snatching three Solo cups from a sleeve along with a handful of washers from a coffee tin. Taking a side of the high top away from the rest of them, I line the cups up on the table and lift a single washer. Using my sleight of hand, I place it beneath a cup before scrambling them. The washer noisily drags on the table, all eyes on the cups until I stop and lift my gaze to Jeremy for his guess.
Jeremy sighs and points to what he’s sure is the obvious cup, and I lift it. Empty. His eyes widen in surprise as I slowly start to re-scramble.
Russell groans in protest. “Hey Dom, you are aware we have a lobby full of people, right? No need for a visual demonstration to get your point across. Contrary to what you might think, Jeremy is the only idiot here.”
Jeremy gapes at him. “That really hurt.”
Peter speaks up. “Dom, we get it. We’re going to use illusion to get the job done. It’s child’s play. You going to sing us Ring Around the Rosie too?”
I pause my movements. “Have you ever examined the lyrics to that sadistic fucking nursery rhyme?” I resume my version of the shell shuffle. “Ring around the Rosie,” I relay, “refers to the rash associated with the plague. Posy was a bouquet used to mask the smell of decaying flesh.”