“Pierce,” Shelby says, handing me the binoculars. “What do you see?”
I lift the binoculars to match my gaze and adjust the zoom. The green and black of the lens allows for contrast in the darkest of shadows. I spot a handful of men milling around the rail yard until a small commercial van drives down the tracks and parks alongside a loaded boxcar. The hurried movements of the men, along with their constant need to glance over their shoulders, tell me they want this job done as fast as possible.
And they don’t want anyone to know about it.
I hand the binoculars back to Shelby. The old man glances through and takes in the new information.
“Something big is going down,” I drawl.
Davis crosses his arms over his chest and huffs. “Can you even see anything with those? Aren’t you blind?”
I give the man a sideways glower before returning my attention to the rail yard. My left eye draws more attention than I like. The iris is clouded over, thanks to a cataract—not something a thirty-seven-year-old usually sports—and it leaves my vision impaired, but my right eye works fine. I’m not fucking blind.
“They’re criminals of the worst kind,” Shelby proclaims.
Davis grabs for the binoculars. Shelby gives them over, his long face set into a neutral expression as he mulls over the situation. He’s a clever guy for his age, but sometimes it takes him a minute to analyze all the facts.
“They might just be railway workers,” Davis mutters, staring at the rail yard, the device firmly pressed against his face. “We don’t know they’re engaged in criminal activity.”
“Did you get a look at the two men standing around the rails?” I ask. “The two not doing anything? They’re acting as lookouts. You don’t do that when you’re working a legit job. Not to mention they’re all carrying guns.”
“Guns?” Davis somehow presses the binoculars harder against his eye sockets. “Where?”
“Look for the shoulder holsters. You can catch sight of them if you pay attention.”
“Fuck. They do have guns.”
Davis lowers the binoculars, and his skin—already pale—shifts two shades whiter than before, giving him the appearance of a semisentient jar of mayonnaise. His trembles something fierce, and I suspect he doesn’t handle stress well.
Fucking perfect. He’s a liability. This isn’t going to be my night.
Shelby takes back the binoculars and packs them away. He shuts the trunk with a gentle click and then motions to the fence. “C’mon, Pierce. We’re gonna get closer. Davis, you stay a little ways behind us.”
“What’re we doing?” I ask.
Private investigators don’t go in with guns blazing—they’re investigators who gather evidence for courtroom attorneys or snoop on cheating spouses. I knew that before I joined Shelby’s firm two months ago, and he’s never done anything as reckless as running out to single-handedly catch criminals like he’s got a Batman complex. What’s this old man thinking?
“You’re a tough guy,” Shelby says, giving me the once-over. “Don’t tell me you’re frightened.”
“You don’t live as long as I have by rushing into things without a little background information. These aren’t normal thugs. They’re part of a bigger operation. That means they’ll have more resources. And that means bigger, better guns, and backup plans. What do we got? A PI with asthma and myself.”
“Hey,” Davis snaps. “What the hell? You don’t know what’s going on here! Stop acting like you’ve pieced everything together. You know jack shit.”
I shoot Davis another glare. “I’ve seen enough of this operation to recognize we’re dealing with some sort of syndicate or organization. All the hallmarks are here. Arranged pickups. Armed enforcers. Remote locations. This isn’t some two-bit crime. We’re walking into someone’s territory.”
“I thought you said you worked at a lumber mill before this. Since when do lumber guys know anything about organized crime? Huh?”
A small piece of me wants to shut this idiot up by telling him that I ran as a mob enforcer for twenty years, but another piece of me—the rational and clear-thinking part—knows that’s a terrible idea.
“Just trust me,” I drawl. “I’d bet my life on it.”
Shelby holds up a hand. “Enough of this. I didn’t think these goons would show up tonight, but now that they’re here, I’m not going to let them get away. We don’t need to arrest them—all we need is irrefutable evidence. Faces. Pictures. Vehicles. Things that lead us back to the real men in charge. And if you two help me, I’ll sign off on twelve months of your training.”
Davis lifts both his eyebrows. “Twelve months? For one night’s worth of work?” He doesn’t take long to weigh the options. “Count me in.”
Getting licensed as a private investigator in Illinois takes three years of experience before an applicant can even apply for the exam. Cutting a whole year off is a nice deal, but Shelby’s desperation gives me pause. He’s checked this rail yard for the last three nights running. He knew these thugs would be here eventually. Shelby’s not telling us something.
Then again, if I did all my training by the book, I’d be forty years old by the time I’m licensed. Shaving a year off this monotony might be worth the risk.
I grit my teeth and exhale. “Fine. But we’re keeping our distance. We aren’t going to mess with these guys.”
“Of course not,” Shelby says. “We’ll get in, get our evidence, and then call the police.”
Davis breathes into his hands and glances around. “Why not call the cops right now?”
“The moment these guys hear the sirens, they’ll take off. We can’t have them leaving before we’ve got our evidence.”
Shelby seems pretty obsessed with catching these guys red-handed. Whatever. “Let’s get this over with,” I say.
We cross the parking lot, creeping along the edge near the office building, until we
