Hour of Need (Scarlet Falls #1)(69)

“That is not a comforting thought.” Adrenaline warmed Grant’s body, and nerves jittered up his spine. What if they were ambushed? What if this Freddie guy Mac claimed owed him one decided to cancel his debt with a bullet? Sweat soaked Grant’s back. He unzipped his jacket to let the heat out, and to give him better access to his weapon.

Mac stopped, slapping his arm. “You should have left the gun in the car.”

“No way.” Grant followed his brother over a set of tracks. “This isn’t the first time I’ve met with people of questionable loyalty. I’ll be fine.” Meetings with Afghan tribal leaders had been dicey. Allegiances were hard to predict and could shift as quickly as a dust storm. But Grant wasn’t feeling like his usual disciplined self.

“We will be significantly outnumbered. Drawing your weapon might get us both killed.”

Discarded cars lined up like vertebrae. A dog barked and a chain rattled. Two men leaned out of the rusted door of a black car. Next to the opening, smoke and flames swirled out of a barrel. One of the men wore motorcycle boots and a leather jacket. The other was decked out in cargo pants and a black zip-up. Their accommodations suited the homeless, but the men appeared fit and well-fed rather than indigent.

“Do you know them?” Grant asked quietly.

Mac shook his head. “No.”

The two men jumped down, their shoulders squared, backs straight, and postures aggressive.

Leather Man hung back and let his buddy take the lead. From under a black knit cap pulled low on his brow, the leader eyed Grant and Mac with suspicion. The men moved apart, covering Grant and Mac from both sides.

“You want something?” the leader asked, his tone suggesting they should say they were lost, then get the f*ck out of there before they got hurt.

“Maybe,” Mac said. “Is Freddie around?”

Grant let Mac take point on the conversation. He stepped away from his brother to cut off the flanking maneuver and keep a collapsed freight car at his back. No one was sneaking up on them.

The leader leaned forward and tilted his head. “You know Freddie?”

“I do.” Mac kept his gaze on the leader. “Tell him Mac is here to see him.”

Interest glimmered. Grant scanned their surroundings. The hairs on his neck waved in a batshit frenzy. He could feel the weight of other eyes on him. They shouldn’t be out in the open while the enemy had cover. His hand twitched, but pulling his weapon was the wrong move. He had no idea how many armed men were watching. Damn it. He shouldn’t have let his brother talk him into this. They were in the middle of nowhere. Two shots and a shovel, and no one would ever find their bodies.

The leader turned and went back to the freight car. Two minutes later, he reemerged. The man following him was at least six foot six with a heavily muscled body that had to weigh three hundred pounds, none of them fat. A mix of blond and gray hair fell from a receding hairline to his shoulders. His bushy mustache and scraggly beard matched.

He strode toward Mac without hesitation. Mac’s eyes clouded with anxiety for the first time. Grant’s lungs locked down. He curled his hand into a fist to remind himself not to go for his weapon.

“Mac!” The giant enveloped him in a bear hug. With one hand still on Mac’s shoulder, Freddie’s gaze shifted to Grant and darkened. “Who the f*ck is that?”

“My brother,” Mac said, relief softening his features.

“Brother, huh? I’ve met your brother. This isn’t him.” Freddie jerked a thumb in Grant’s direction. “He looks like a cop.”

“You met Lee. This is my other brother.” Mac shook his head. “Grant’s military. Been in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

Freddie nodded, his suspicion morphing into something else. Respect? “Man, thanks for your service.”

And that was the absolute last thing Grant expected to hear. “Uh, you’re welcome.”

“Let’s go somewhere more private.” Freddie looped an arm around Mac’s shoulders and steered him past the barrel fire to the rail car. They hoisted themselves inside. The interior had been fitted out with discarded upholstered furniture. A makeshift table held ziplock bags of pot and white powder. Two guys with assault rifles lounged behind the tables. A third man, nearly as large as Freddie, counted bags and stuffed them into a duffel bag. His blond hair was cut in a razor-sharp style that could have graced the cover of Esquire. Instead of the leather look favored by the rest of Freddie’s men, this man wore European casual: dark jeans and a white shirt open at the neck. Though they were dressed as complete opposites, this man had to be related to Freddie. His son, Grant bet.

He looked up as they entered. A smile split his face. “Mac!”

“Rafe, how the hell are you?” Mac gave Rafe a shoulder-slapping, one-armed man hug.

Grant looked away. He had no idea Mac had been involved with a drug dealer of this scale. Freddie had said he’d met Lee. Looked like Lee had kept the truth from Grant.

Mac dropped into a chair, far too comfortable for Grant’s comfort.

Freddie frowned from Grant to the drug display. “You sure he’s not a cop?”

“Positive,” Mac said.

“Dad, it’s Mac,” Rafe protested. “He wouldn’t bring a cop here.”

Grant leaned on the wall, tried to look casual, and lied. “I could care less about your business dealings.”