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CHAPTER 1
One year later
"Police, search warrant!" Dom kicked at the rusty warehouse door.
The door flew open with an ear-splitting squeal, then slammed backward against the wall.
Gripping his Glock in both hands, he swept the dimly lit interior. Without looking, he knew his partner, Detective Gray Yates, was doing the same on the other side of the building.
With his gun extended, he moved quickly, deeper inside the old Brooklyn warehouse, constantly glancing up and to the sides. The other detective partnered up with him, Teddy Pulaski, followed a few steps behind.
The tactical gun-mounted flashlight on his Smith and Wesson lit up the corridor before him in an eerie glow, but it also screamed out his position to anyone hiding between the crates. He pushed onward, nearly to the end of the warehouse, when he caught the telltale signs.
Where there should have been dust, there wasn't. Where there shouldn't have been dust, there was. On the floor. On the shelving. Someone had moved things around.
He stopped and held up a closed fist. Behind him, Pulaski breathed heavily. The only other sound came from the other search teams scouring the warehouse, clearing sections as they went.
"C'mon, Carew," Pulaski whispered. "Let's get on with this, for Chrissake."
Ignoring the other detective, Dom shut his eyes and took shallow breaths, slowing his heartbeat, tuning in to his surroundings as any seasoned soldier would.
A subtle shift in the air current flowed past his left cheek, bringing with it the odor of soap and sweat. Then a light scraping sound that seemed to stop before it had even started. But it had been there. He was sure of it.
He slowed his pace. The last thing he wanted was to miss what he'd come there for in the first place.
Jack Schneider.
The bastard was here. Even without seeing him, he could feel the other man's presence. Like him, Schneider would know all the Delta Force tricks, including hiding in plain sight and other tactics drilled into them during situational awareness training.
Counting on Schneider not shooting him in the back was a risk, but his gut told him he'd pegged the guy accurately. There were so many cops in the building there was no way Schneider could take a shot and not get drilled. Schneider's only chance to beat a major felony weapons rap was to keep his ass low and stay hidden.
Dom opened his eyes and lowered his fist. He and Pulaski pressed onward. The warehouse seemed to go on forever, taking up an entire city block. The concrete floor was lined with row after row of metal shelving stacked to the ceiling with wooden crates and cardboard boxes. Easy for anyone to hide and take him out before he ever saw it coming. The air was icy cold, but sweat trickled down his back just the same.
Taking more shallow breaths, he listened with every step. Soon all he heard was the beating of his heart and his own slow, steady intake of air.
According to their informant, his quarry was somewhere on this side of the building. He needed to confront the man. Alone. He'd have to concoct a way to get Pulaski out of there. It would leave him without backup, but it was all part of the plan. One he'd been crafting meticulously for over a year.
I'll find you, you sonofabitch.
He clenched his jaw to keep from swearing out loud. Any cop or military personnel who turned to the dark side to make a buck was lower than slug shit as far as he was concerned. The guy he was after was a card-carrying member of Slugshit, Incorporated, a.k.a. the Pyramid — the most notorious group of assassins to walk the earth.
The Pyramid had tried to kill his former partner, Cassie Flannery, then kidnapped his current partner's fiancée — Alex Romano, a police administrative aide — to squeeze information out of her about the security setup at police headquarters. Luckily, both Cassie and Alex had survived.
Another barely audible sound came to his ears, but he kept walking. Two more steps and he saw it. Darkness, five feet above him, in between two crates on the second tier of metal shelving. All the other crates on that row had dim, filtered light shining through. Not so for the two crates he'd just passed. Something that shouldn't have been there was blocking the light. Across the aisle, another crate rested on the bottom shelf with its lid slightly askew — a distraction.
Schneider, you just gave yourself away.
The hackles on Dom's neck prickled, and it took every ounce of restraint not to glance to his left and plug the man straight through the heart.
His pulse raced, and he let out a slow, controlled breath through his nose. Keep. Your. Cool. He looked over his shoulder to see Pulaski searching left and right along the corridor of crates. As expected, Pulaski's untrained senses didn't detect a thing out of place. Even though he'd just passed within three feet of a trained killer.
Up ahead, at the end of the warehouse, a buzzing fluorescent light bulb flickered overhead, illuminating a six-foot-long metal table tucked against the wall. Exactly what Dom had expected.
Weapons.
He took quick inventory.
Hand grenades, semi-automatic pistols, Kalashnikov AK-47s, an RPG-7 rocket launcher. Before him was a deadly stockpile of mostly Soviet-made weaponry. All favorites of Pyramid assassins.
"Holy fuck!" Pulaski exclaimed loudly, not bothering to whisper anymore. "Man, we hit the jackpot. Look at all this shit."
"Yeah, how 'bout that?" Dom affected an air of surprise in his voice.
Muted voices floated to him from the far side of the warehouse, but he had every confidence Gray would keep the rest of the entry team away. Now to get rid of Pulaski.
After holstering his gun, he tipped his head in the direction of the other side of the warehouse. "Head back and give Gray the happy news, would ya?" He pulled a small spiral pad and pen from his jacket pocket. "I'll start a preliminary inventory and call it in to the lieutenant."
Pulaski holstered his weapon, then leveled Dom with a suspicious look. "Maybe I'd better stay here and help. I wouldn't want you to lose any evidence again, Carew."
"I got this," he said through gritted teeth, and since he outranked the other detective by several years, Pulaski dutifully about-faced and headed back in the direction from which they'd come, but not before making a disgusted sound in the back of his throat.
As the other man's footsteps receded, Dom took an intentionally loud breath and tossed the pad and pen onto the table. He slipped one hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the small flask. Gotta make this look good. After unscrewing the top, he took a swig and headed back down the aisle. He stopped at the open crate, the flask intentionally visible in his hand. He turned, leaning forward, pretending to inspect the lid.
C'mon, c'mon.
Every muscle in his body tensed, coiling tight, steeling himself for the blow. If he didn't make this look good, the ruse wouldn't work.
The air shifted again. Shelving creaked, then a whooshing sound.
The force flung him forward, knocking him off his feet. He doubled over the top of the crate and grunted as the wind escaped his lungs. Pain lanced through his ribs as he tried to suck in a breath.
A hand gripped his arm and yanked him off the crate. He ducked an instant before a fist connected with his jaw. He jabbed Schneider in the gut and was rewarded with a loud oof. He lunged at the other man, tackling him to the ground. They rolled across the aisle until his head whacked into the metal shelving. Fuck.
He groaned as pain splintered his skull. He shook his head and kicked with both feet, hurling Schneider off him, rewarded by the sound of the other man's skull whacking into a crate.
"Motherfucker," Schneider growled.
Dom staggered to his feet and for a few seconds saw stars. He yanked out his Glock and pointed it dead center on Schneider's chest.
The other man breathed heavily, and there was just enough light coming from the flickering fluorescent bulb not six feet away for him to see Schneider had hit his head pretty damn hard. The guy's hand came away with blood when he tried to rise off the floor.
"Police, stay down!" he said in a firm yet subdued tone. The last thing he wanted was for the other teams still searching the warehouse to come running. He inched into the light so that his face would be visible, then he glanced in all directions. His informant said the quarry would be alone, but he wasn't taking any chances.
Ignoring the warning, Schneider planted his fists on the floor and tried to get to his feet. Dom parked his boot on Schneider's chest and shoved him back onto the floor. "Buddy," he said, unable to keep the impatience from his tone, "I'm only gonna say this one more time. If you don't keep your ass glued to the floor, I'll blast your chest full of holes."
He knew firsthand the guy was an expert marksman with multiple wartime kills. Giving him the opportunity to reach for another hidden weapon ... Not gonna happen.
He gripped his gun tighter. He was fully prepared to make good on his warning to shoot the other man but hoped to hell he didn't have to. It would set his plan back at least another six months.
Unacceptable.
Speaking of unacceptable, he likewise hoped their little wrestling match hadn't attracted the other teams sweeping the warehouse. He was counting on Gray to keep them all busy until he gave the signal.
Now they were both illuminated by sufficient light that each could see the other man's face. It had been nearly fifteen years, but he still recognized him.
Jack Schneider. Traitor to the army uniform, and to every man and woman who died protecting the American way of life.
"Get up," he ordered, then watched as Schneider stood slowly to his full height. Dom had forgotten how big the bastard was. At about six-two and nearly two hundred pounds, they were nearly the same size. "Put your hands on top of your head and interlace your fingers."
Schneider's face was now hidden partially by shadow, but Dom intentionally remained in the light, waiting for the moment of recognition.
"Sonofabitch." Schneider's face twisted into a hesitant grin. "That you, Carew?"
He pretended to search Schneider's face, as if he were struggling to recall the man's identity. This had to look like a purely coincidental encounter, when in reality it was a well-planned and carefully executed meeting.
"Schneider?" He feigned surprise, cracking a smile that he didn't feel in the slightest. "Sonofabitch is right." He lowered his gun, keeping his finger on the trigger. Like him, Schneider had been Delta and was fully capable of killing a man silently and efficiently with his bare hands. Courtesy of the taxpayers.
"You aren't really gonna shoot me, are ya, buddy?" Schneider lowered his hands from his head, outstretching his arms in question.
"That depends." He eyed Schneider with suspicion. "You gonna run on me?"
"Truce," Schneider said. "For old time's sake?"
Atta boy, asshole. Play right into my trap like a puppet on a string.
Hesitantly, he lowered his weapon, then shoved it into his holster. "What the hell are you doing here?" He dipped his head to the table covered with weapons.
Schneider snorted. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
A shout of all clear at the far end of the warehouse had him whipping his gaze down the aisle. His partner could hold the troops off for only so long before they'd come to check on him. Every second was crucial.
"Try me." He stepped to within a couple feet of Schneider.
Schneider indicated the flask that had fallen from Dom's hand during the scuffle. "A little early to be hitting the bottle, isn't it, Officer Carew?"
"Not your business." Just part of the plan. "And that's Detective Carew, to you."
"My apologies, Detective." Schneider's tone was laced with sarcasm.
"Apology accepted." Time to dangle the carrot. "Now start talking and make it fast. I've got a meeting with IA in an hour. Bastards are on my ass enough as it is." He paused to let that information sink in. "What's with the small arsenal?"
Schneider took a deep breath, and he knew precisely what the guy was thinking. Possession of all that heavy artillery would get him a lengthy stay at Hotel Sing-Sing. Dealing him in was Schneider's only way out, but not something to be offered lightly. Allowing anyone into the Pyramid's inner sanctum without being blessed by its leader could be Schneider's death sentence. But Schneider owed him big time for a favor done long ago, and he intended to collect.
Dom let out an impatient breath. "Spill it or our little truce comes to an end."
Schneider held out his arms again in an imploring gesture. "You and I go way back, Carew. To Afghanistan. Doesn't that count for something?"
He leaned against the crate behind him. "Delta Force counts for something, but as I recall you nearly got bounced out. Something about drugs, whoring, and AWOL. The only thing that kept you out of lockup was me." He'd convinced his commanding officer to give Schneider a chance to clean up his act.
The corners of Schneider's mouth tipped upward briefly. "The truth was that I and a few others found another line of business that was more lucrative than playing soldier. It was an untapped market out there. Sadly, the army didn't share my views on expanding my entrepreneurial horizons."
"Yeah, no shit." Guys like Schneider disgusted him, and he'd regretted helping Schneider get out of hot water all those years ago.
"C'mon, Carew." Despite the chilly air, Schneider swiped at a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. "Everyone strays from the path of justice now and then. Even you, Boy Scout that you were. You just told me IA is creeping up your ass. You help me out today, maybe I help you out tomorrow."
Cha-ching. He had to prod Schneider subtly, although his inclination was to ram a cattle prod up his ass.
"Just what kind of help are you offering?" His gaze traveled down Schneider's expensive silk shirt and tailored trousers, pretending he was only now noticing the fancy duds. "Looks to me whatever you're into now pays well."
"True enough." Schneider nodded. "Since I left the army, I've had some interesting opportunities come my way. If you're willing to play ball, maybe some of these opportunities will head your way as well. I owe you, after all."
For effect, he narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean exactly?"
Schneider shot a look behind him in the direction of an exit door that led to the back alley. "Let me go and I'll make sure there's something in it for you. A little spending cash. Maybe even a new job. Sounds like you're on the verge of needing one. But you gotta lay off the hooch."
Touchdown.
"I don't like surprises." He raised an eyebrow. "What does this job entail?"
Schneider shook his head. "Not here. I need to introduce you to someone first. I don't call the shots."
Dom let out a heavy, impatient breath, as if he wasn't going to take the deal. He couldn't make this too easy or those Schneider worked for wouldn't buy into a highly decorated NYPD detective going bad. "You know I can't just let you go without something more." Again, he glanced at the guns on the table. "And there's no way in hell I can let you walk out of here with those weapons."
Schneider made a dismissive sound. "Those are nothing, just a small sample sent by some friends abroad."
A small sample?
Looked like enough deadly hardware to take out a platoon.
"Meet me next Tuesday night, 1173 Bedford Avenue, Brooklyn. Third floor. Six o'clock." Schneider snapped his gaze to the left as low voices echoed down the aisle. "I'll explain more then."
He pointed a finger at Schneider. "If you're fucking with me, I'll find you. You know that."
"I do." Schneider nodded.
Dom was known in Delta for his uncanny ability to track anything. He was the one who'd found Schneider passed out cold in his little love shack, naked, high off his ass, and surrounded by prostitutes.
He pressed his lips together, then pushed from the crate and turned on the radio clipped to his belt. "I got one. I'll bring him out the front."
"Ten-four," Gray came back. It was the signal he and Gray had prearranged to notify that the quarry had taken the bait.
"Carew, you motherfucker." Schneider glared at him, clenching his fists. "I knew you couldn't be trusted."
"Relax." He held out both hands, palms downward in a calming gesture. "Every door to this warehouse is covered on the outside by uniforms. The door behind you only has one guy on it. But it has to look good, so hit me."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Disavowed"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Tee O'Fallon.
Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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