Stop cold, p.1
STOP COLD, page 1
S T O P
H O P I N G
(A Beth Drake FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 4)
K a t e B o l d
Kate Bold
Bestselling author Kate Bold is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, including Meg Thorne, Heather King, Brynn Justice, Beth Drake, Maggie Flight, Addison Shine, Barren Pines, Nina Veil, Nora Price, Kelsey Hawk, Alexa Chase, Ashley Hope, Camille Grace, Harley Cole, Kaylie Brooks, Eve Hope, Dylan First, Lauren Lamb series.
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.
Copyright © 2025 by Kate Bold. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Galyna Andrushko, used under license from Shutterstock.com.
SERIES BY KATE BOLD
MEG THORNE
HEATHER KING
BRYNN JUSTICE
BETH DRAKE
MAGGIE FLIGHT
ADDISON SHINE
BARREN PINES
NINA VEIL
NORA PRICE
KELSEY HAWK
ALEXA CHASE
ASHLEY HOPE
CAMILLE GRACE
HARLEY COLE
KAYLIE BROOKS
EVE HOPE
DYLAN FIRST
LAUREN LAMB
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
The air over the Annapolis City Marina carried the sharp tang of saltwater and diesel, a familiar sting in Tony Mendez’s nostrils as he trudged along the weathered dock. It was late—past midnight—and the marina was quiet, save for the soft lapping of waves against hulls and the occasional creak of a mooring line. The sky above was a heavy blanket of clouds, blotting out the stars, leaving only the dim glow of sodium lights to guide his steps.
Tony’s sneakers scuffed against the splintered wood, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn hoodie, fingers brushing the plastic baggie tucked inside.
Fifty grams of fentanyl. Enough to make this deal worth the risk, but not enough to die for. And making it out of this night alive felt a long way from certain right now.
Beside him, Manny walked with a loose, easy stride, his breath puffing out in little clouds that dissolved into the chilly March night. Manny was the one who’d set this up, swearing it was a sure thing. “Relax, bro,” he said now, his voice low but steady, cutting through the hum of Tony’s nerves. “You’re acting like we’re walking into a firing squad. It’s just a deal. In and out.”
Tony shot him a sidelong glance, his jaw tight. "You hardly know this guy, Manny. What if he's—" He stopped, the words catching in his throat. What if he's a cartel? What if he knows I've been undercutting their prices? He didn't say it aloud, but the thought was in his head, buzzing around like a wasp trapped in an attic.
Manny snorted, clapping a hand on Tony's shoulder. "You're paranoid, man. I've met him before. He's cool. Pays on time. Don't ask questions." He gestured ahead, where the silhouette of a sleek cabin cruiser bobbed gently against the dock, its name—La Sirena—painted in curling red letters along the hull. “There she is. We’re almost done already.”
Tony didn't answer. His eyes darted around the marina, taking in the shadows between boats and the glint of light off a nearby railing. He swore he saw movement on a fishing trawler two slips down—a flicker of a shadow on the bow, gone as soon as he blinked.
A narc? Is someone watching for the Morales cartel?
Just my luck, he thought. A little fish like me getting caught in a big DEA net.
His pulse accelerated, thudding in his ears. He’d been careful, kept his deals small, stayed under the radar. He shouldn't be worth much to the DEA. But that wouldn't stop them from scooping him up if they were busting the cartel.
Assuming these guys were cartel.
It's not the DEA you have to worry about. If these guys are cartel, luring you in just to gobble up the competition…
“Tony,” Manny said, sharper this time, pulling him back. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Tony lied, forcing his feet to keep moving. “Just… let’s get this over with.”
The boat loomed closer now, its deck lights casting a pale glow over the water. As they reached the gangplank, Tony’s stomach lurched. There were people on board—more than he’d expected. He’d figured it’d be just the buyer, maybe one other guy for muscle. But he counted three figures in the dim light: two standing near the railing, their postures stiff and alert, and a third leaning against the cabin door, arms crossed. The two by the railing wore dark jackets, and Tony caught the glint of something metallic tucked into one of their waistbands.
Guns.
His mouth went dry.
“See?” Manny muttered, apparently missing the weapons. “Told you. No big deal.”
But Tony wasn’t listening. His eyes snagged on a detail—the tattoo on the neck of the guy by the cabin. A scorpion, its tail curled up, stark black against his skin. Tony’s heart slammed against his ribs. He’d seen that tattoo before, on a runner who’d come through Baltimore last year, moving product for the Morales cartel.
“Manny,” he hissed, grabbing his friend’s arm. “We need to go. Now.”
Manny frowned, shaking him off. “What the hell, man? We’re here. Chill out.”
Before Tony could argue, one of the men on deck stepped forward—a broad-shouldered guy with a buzz cut and a scar slicing through his left eyebrow. “There a problem?” he called, his voice rough, like he’d smoked a pack a day for twenty years.
“No,” Manny said, stepping up to the gangplank. “No problem. Where’s your boss?”
“Inside,” Scarface said, jerking his thumb toward the cabin. “He’s coming. You wait here.”
Tony’s legs felt like lead, but Manny was already crossing onto the boat, leaving him no choice but to follow. The deck swayed under his feet, and he gripped the railing, his knuckles whitening. The two armed men watched him, their eyes flat and unreadable.
Tony forced himself to breathe, to keep his face neutral, but his mind was screaming. This was a setup. It had to be. Manny had vouched for this guy, but what if Manny didn’t know? What if they’d lured him here just to get rid of him?
What if there was no deal?
Minutes dragged by, the silence thick and suffocating. Tony shifted his weight, the baggie in his pocket feeling heavier than ever. He glanced at Manny, who was leaning against a stack of crates, picking at his nails like this was just another Tuesday. How could he be so calm? Didn’t he see the danger?
Finally, the cabin door swung open, and a man stepped out. He was older than Tony expected—maybe forty, with sharp cheekbones and a neatly trimmed beard flecked with gray. His eyes were cold, dark pools that seemed to swallow the light, and he moved with a deliberate slowness that made Tony’s skin crawl. He wore a black leather jacket, unzipped, revealing a crisp white shirt underneath.
No visible weapons, but Tony didn’t doubt he had one. Not that it really mattered, considering his security detail.
“You’re Tony?” the man said, his voice low and clipped, barely above a whisper.
Tony nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah."
The man’s gaze flicked to Manny, then back to Tony, lingering. “I hear you’ve got something for me.”
Tony fumbled for words. “Uh, yeah. Fifty grams. Good stuff, pure. I mean, not cut with anything weird. You’ll like it, I swear.” He was babbling, and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop. The man’s silence was worse than any threat.
“Show me,” the man said.
Tony pulled the baggie from his pocket, holding it out with a trembling hand. The man took it, turning it over in his fingers, inspecting it like a jeweler with a diamond. Then he looked up, his expression unreadable. “You tried it?”
Tony blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. You tried it?”
“No, I—” Tony hesitated, glancing at Manny for help. Manny just shrugg ed. “I don’t use. I just move it.”
The man’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “I don’t buy what I don’t know. You try it. Now.”
Tony’s stomach dropped. “Look, man, I don’t—”
“You don’t trust your own product?” The man’s voice hardened, and the two armed guys shifted, hands drifting toward their waists. “What, it's not good enough for you?"
“He’ll do it,” Manny cut in, stepping forward. “We both will. Right, Tony?”
Tony wanted to scream, to run, but he was trapped. The deck felt like it was closing in, the water beyond it a black void. He nodded stiffly. “Yeah. Okay.”
The man handed the baggie to Scarface, who pulled a small spoon from his pocket and scooped out a pinch of the white powder. He held it out to Tony, who took it with shaking fingers. He’d seen enough overdoses to know this was a bad idea—that was why he'd made it a personal rule that he wouldn't use his own product. But he couldn’t see a way out of this situation that involved being both sober and alive.
He brought the spoon to his nose, inhaled sharply, and felt the burn hit instantly. His head swam, a warm haze creeping in at the edges of his vision.
“See?” he said, forcing a grin. “Good stuff.”
The man turned to Manny. “Your turn.”
Manny didn’t hesitate, taking his hit with a practiced ease. He laughed, wiping his nose. “Damn, Tony. You weren’t kidding.”
The man watched them, his face a mask, unreadable as stone. Then he leaned back against the cabin wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “My uncle, Tío Raul,” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the damp night air like a blade, “he was everything to me. Took me in when I was a kid, back when my old man was too drunk to stand and my mom didn’t care. He was the one who showed me how to survive.”
Tony stared at the deck, the fentanyl’s warm buzz spreading through his skull, softening the edges of the world. He didn’t like the man’s eyes—gray and flat, like a lizard’s, watching him with a cold intensity that made his skin prickle. Manny stood beside him, shifting his weight, but Tony barely noticed. His head was swimming, and the man’s voice seemed to drift in and out, pulling him along.
“We were tight,” the man continued, his tone almost nostalgic, though those eyes never warmed. “Used to fish together off the coast, just the two of us. He had this old skiff, beat to hell, but he’d take me out every weekend. Taught me how to bait a hook, how to gut a catch without flinching. Said a man’s got to know how to handle a knife."
There was a thoughtful pause as the man gazed off across the water.
Is there a point to this story? Tony wondered, though he sensed he might not want to hear it.
"We’d sit there for hours," the man finally continued, "drinking cheap beer he’d sneak me when I was twelve, thirteen. Told me stories—crazy shit about running product down in Juárez, dodging cops, outsmarting rivals. He was a legend to me.”
He paused again, letting the words hang, and Tony’s gaze flicked up briefly, then back down. The deck planks blurred under his feet, the high making his thoughts sluggish. What was the point of this? Some old family yarn? He tried to focus, but the man’s voice kept going, steady and relentless.
“Raul taught me the business too,” the man said, uncrossing his arms to rest a hand on the railing. “How to weigh product, how to spot a snitch. We’d ride together sometimes—late nights, moving bags across state lines. He’d laugh, slap my back, tell me I was his blood, his pride. Said one day I’d take over, keep the family strong. I believed him. Hell, I worshipped him. You know how that is, don’t you? Having someone you’d do anything for?”
Tony nodded absently, a reflex, his mouth dry. Manny muttered a quick “Yeah,” but Tony barely heard it. The buzz in his head was louder now, a pleasant hum that dulled the ache in his legs, but the fear still clawed through, sharp and insistent.
The man’s tone was too calm, too controlled, and those lizard eyes never blinked.
“He was right," the man continued. "I worked my way through the ranks. I saw off the competition. I became the boss." His voice dropped, growing cold. "Then one day, I discovered Raul was cheating us—skimming off the top. Not much—just a little here, a little there. Thought he was slick, stashing cash in a lockbox under his floorboards, selling to outsiders behind our backs. But I found it. Counted every peso he’d taken from the family. My family.”
Tony’s stomach twisted. He forced himself to look up, meeting the man’s gaze for a split second before dropping it again. The deck seemed to tilt, though he knew it was just the drugs.
“I confronted him,” the man went on. “Middle of the night, out on that same skiff. Just the two of us, like old times. He denied it at first—laughed, even. Said I was crazy. But I had the lockbox with me, showed him the proof. He stopped laughing then. Tried to beg, said it was a mistake, that he’d make it right. But you don’t cross family. You don’t steal from your own blood and think it’s nothing.”
The man’s hand flexed on the railing, knuckles whitening, and Tony swallowed hard. The two armed guys behind them shifted.
“I took care of it,” the man said, his voice flat now, final. “Tied his hands with fishing line—tight, so he’d feel it. Used the knife he gave me, the one he taught me to wield. Cut him slow, piece by piece, while he screamed about loyalty. Took his fingers first, then his tongue, so he couldn’t lie anymore. Left him out there, bleeding into the water. Sharks got the rest."
He took a deep breath and crossed his arms. "Family’s everything, you see. Loyalty. And if you cross me—if anyone crosses me—there are consequences. You understand that, don’t you?”
Tony nodded again, jerky and quick, his pulse hammering in his ears. Manny echoed him, a shaky “Yeah, man."
The man stared at Tony, those gray eyes boring into him. Then he reached into his jacket. Tony flinched, expecting a gun, but he pulled out a thick wad of cash instead. “Five thousand,” he said, tossing it to Tony.
Tony caught it, fumbling. For a moment, he just stood there, not realizing the deal was over. Not realizing they were waiting for him to leave.
Then, recovering, he cleared his throat. "Thanks," he muttered, and immediately felt stupid for it. He glanced at Manny, who gave him a tense nod, and together they hurried off the boat.
As they hit the dock, Manny let out a whoop, his voice echoing off the water. “See? Told you it’d be fine, bro! Man, I feel alive right now!” He threw his head back, grinning wide, his teeth flashing in the dim marina lights, the high making him giddy, reckless.
Tony didn’t answer. His head buzzed, a thick, syrupy hum from the fentanyl coursing through him, softening the edges of the world but not enough to rub out his fear, not entirely. He kept thinking about the story that man told, and those cold, reptilian eyes. What was the point of it all? Just to let him know where things stood?
Let Tony know the consequences of crossing him.
He glanced over his shoulder, worried the man might've changed his mind, and he swore he saw a shadow move—a figure slipping between the hulls of two boats, quick and silent, like a predator stalking prey.
His breath hitched. “Manny,” he muttered, his voice low, unsteady, “someone’s following us.”
Manny laughed, loud and careless, clapping a heavy hand on Tony’s shoulder. “It’s the drugs, bro. You’re tripping hard. We’re good—better than good. We’ve got cash in our pockets and our heads still attached. Relax already.” He gave Tony a playful shove as they left the dock and headed toward the parking lot.
Tony stumbled, the world tilting under his feet, but his eyes kept darting back, scanning the maze of boats and shadows. Was it one of those guys from La Sirena? One of the armed thugs with the dead stares?
Tony’s hand brushed the wad of cash in his pocket, fifteen hundred bucks, and he wondered if it was worth it. Worth risking his life over. He needed to find a way out of this life—and soon.
They reached the parking lot. Manny stopped by his beat-up Civic, turning to pull Tony into a quick, rough hug. “Catch you tomorrow, yeah? Same spot—by the pier, noon. We’ll split the take, grab some beers." He looked Tony over, grinning. "You did good tonight, man.”
