“Three and a half years ago, a Fed operation infiltrated the Reapers ring.”
I don't look at him, but I catch the movement of him slinging his arm over the car door. The metal is searing hot, but it's not pain that comes through in his rigid posture. Maybe it's the realization that I won't coddle him, or maybe it's something more mature, but something has triggered his training. The businessman is considering the angles.
I push the pedal down and shift the stick once, twice. We're not going fast, but we're going fast enough that the car creates a cloud of dust. I can barely see in front of us. That's the thing about navigating, you can feel the way if you let yourself. It's a philosophy I'm counting on, one I learned from having a mentor who would beat me and no one to watch my back.
My words come hotter than expected.
“Back then, Charlie and Gram did business. The rat relayed the time and place of a huge deal between the two and the Feds raided it. Some real fucked up shit that led to a lot of dead bodies and just enough breathing room for Charlie, and Gram, to slip through the cracks.”
The sound of the road falls into a gentle rhythm that steadies my temper. The anger within this topic has nothing to do with my assigned partner. The memories, though, are heavy. This road, this cast of players, it all feels nostalgic.
Josh turns a half-cocked glance at me, but he doesn't hold it. He says, “That doesn't explain the beef between the Reaps and us.”
I cut the wheel for a sharp left, my visibility extending about five feet in front of the car. The sudden movement makes him jerk his arm inside the car to grip his seat. A smirk teases my lips but I deny it and he doesn't see it.
I say, “You're right. It doesn't. But if you're so willing to throw yourself into a war, it might be good to know why.”
He sighs, but it's directed out the window again. I realize that he's not so different from me. He's furious right now, but it's quiet and controlled. He's always known there's shit he didn't know. He had to. Just now, as the truth falls, he realizes that he couldn't have prepared himself for this. There's a rage in him that's familiar.
“Tell me,” he says without looking at me.
I haven't actually voiced these memories in so long it feels like trying to use a torn muscle. I've gotten so good at silencing those thoughts that they seem foreign. Like a life that wasn't mine. Is this what it means to bite the bullet?
“Charlie's operation lost a considerable amount of weight, not to mention a shit-ton of cash seized by the Feds. Most of his crew ended up dead, including several illegals and lower rung dealers. There was one arrest. The Pigs tried everything to get him to talk, but he wouldn't. He knew better. Anyway, he's rotting in jail for refusing to squeal.”
I hit the brakes again, catching Josh off guard, so that his attention snaps forward. I shift down as we stop. We're about to turn onto a real road, about to leave the enchanted swamp behind. He taps his fingers on his knees, the only sign of his aggravation except his hard-set expression.
I flip the blinker on as the dust begins to clear. There's not a soul on this two-lane this time in the morning, but I let her idle for an exaggerated moment. The sun breaks through the trees to slant directly into his window. His hair has fallen to hide his expression from me. Not that I care.
I tease the gas, work the stick, and roll us onto the asphalt. He says, “And what happened to the Reaps?”
My foot feels heavy as I gun the gas pedal in response to his question. As always, the topic feels dangerous, calls to a buried part of me who learned fast skills in a gutter. I push the speedometer past the fifty-five limit, level it out at sixty-two. Josh is still tense. Maybe he's paranoid, or scared.
“We lost an operation, too,” I say, willfully ignoring him.
I hear the snag in his breathing, can feel his attention redirecting to me. For a moment, I wish he weren't such a genuine shmuck. I wish he operated on spite or jealousy, just so I could hate him. But he doesn't, he's a good ol' boy. He really feels shit, he reacts based on his gut.
“You?” he says quietly, barely audible and barely pitched as a question. It stings in my hollow chest, more than I'd care to admit.
“Yeah,” I say. “Abuela did not appreciate the whole ordeal. She ordered the death of her own grandchildren. But, as he was apt to do, Charlie talked her out of it. Instead, she gave him probation, a small operation set up to repay the loss from the bust.”
Josh's posture eases back against his seat as the air finally begins to move through the car. He's staring forward, expression blank, hands abandoned on the seat. Miles pass before he speaks again.
“And you, you were a Reaper,” he says. The tone is flat, not a question at all. Not an accusation either.
I lean forward, letting the wind whoosh between my back and the leather car seat. It's like a first breath after near-suffocation. The steel that I earned from the very subject we've broached brings me to life. I push my sunglasses up my nose with one hand as I drive with the other.
The w ind feels good, ruffling my hair and cooling the heat gathered on my surface. What am I doing, getting buddy-buddy with this prick? What do I care if he's confused? What if he has to cover my back some day? I glance down at my daishou tattoo.
“It was my operation that got wiped out. I was supposed to be
