Pike (The Pawn Duet #1) - T.M. Frazier Page 0,13

them right away. You heard King. We’ve got to find out who's responsible for threatening his family and jacking our shit.”

“Don’t I know it,” Nine says, lighting a cigarette. A deep V forms in the center of his forehead as I pull out of the pawn shop parking lot.

They may call Nine the prince of Logan’s Beach, but he still has a lot to prove to the men who gave him that title. King, Preppy, and Bear. The three fuck-you-up-a-teers that don’t take shit from anyone. They’ve made this town what it is and earned the right to do it through blood sweat and more blood. Nine’s got money now and plenty of it, both through his legitimate weed growing operation with his brother Preppy and an investment deal that went really fucking south before he turned it around and was able to make things right in the end.

He even got his girl out of the situation.

That being said, money doesn't mean shit when it comes to proving yourself and earning respect.

I understand Nine’s need to show them he’s here to earn that same right. I’m the biggest supplier in town. King and I have an agreement, and he’s allowed me to do business here. Shit, he even fronted the money for the shipment that got jacked the other night. Nine may have a lot on the line here and still have something to prove, but he’s not the only one. I’ve got to get this shipment back or my days of doing business in Logan’s Beach are fucking over.

We’re parked about a half a mile away from the warehouse in the shadows beside the stop-and-go parking lot. Nine and I are glued to the unmoving black and white surveillance feed on his tablet propped up in the center console. Exactly three hours and a half a pack of smokes later, there’s finally movement in the corner of the screen. Three men appear from one of the garage bays as another pulls out a truck.

Not just any truck.

“My fucking shit,” I growl. A vein behind my eye pulses with my raging blood. I turn one of the broken handcuffs I wear on my wrists over and over, not caring that I draw blood from the skin underneath; the metal is slightly rusted and not nearly as smooth as it used to be. I don’t give a fuck about my wrists though. I don’t give a shit about my own blood. The only blood I care about right this fucking second is the blood of the fuckers who stole from me. I can already taste revenge on my lips. It’s not sweet. It’s sinful. It’s decadent. It’s downright fucking erotic.

“You ready?” Nine asks.

I start up the van and nod. “Let the foreplay begin.”

“Wait,” Nine says, as I switch the van into gear. His eyes are on the screen once more. He turns it so I can have a better view and the three men are no longer by the van or the truck. “They just went inside. Should we…” he trails off when someone else appears, but it’s not the three men from before. This person is smaller and wearing a hoodie, and they look like they’re in a hurry as they rush into the van and head out of the parking lot.

“They must be switching locations again,” Nine says. They’ve done this several times over the past day in an effort to keep us from locating them.

Too fucking late.

“Our shit in there?” I ask, pointing at the van.

Nine shakes his head. “Not all of it. They must be moving it in smaller shipments.”

“Doesn’t matter. We need info. You see anyone else get in the van?”

Nine smiles. “Nope. Just the driver.”

My adrenaline races as I slam on the gas and head toward the direction of the warehouse. There’s only one road in and out of town from the warehouse. There’s no escaping us now.

We drive for less than a minute before I spy the headlights of the white van speeding toward us in the wrong lane. “What kind of fucking driver did they fucking hire?” Nine asks.

The driver spots us and swerves into the next lane in order to pass us. “Oh no you fucking don’t,” I grate, and just as we approach a small overpass, the one above a canal that connects the bay to the river, I yank on the wheel. We spin right in front of the van; whose driver jerks the wheel at full speed. I don’t