Stop cold, p.4
STOP COLD, page 4
The air was sharp with the scent of salt and diesel, and every creak of a mooring line set her nerves on edge. She adjusted her grip on the binoculars, her breath fogging briefly before dissolving into the wind.
Beside her knelt Agent Sarah Martinez, her navy DEA windbreaker rustling as she peered around the traps. Her hazel eyes glinted with a mix of impatience and focus, her tight ponytail swaying as she shifted.
“Boat’s late,” she muttered, voice clipped. “Snitch said midnight—hope he’s not jerking us around.”
“He’d better not be,” Beth said. She glanced at her watch—11:47 p.m.—then back to the water. They’d raced here from Baltimore after Rusty Callahan’s tip and spoken with Martinez, who had shared that she was expecting a Morales cartel drop that very night on El Halcón, a fishing trawler due to offload fentanyl at this slip. Martinez had been planning to grab anyone involved in the deal, but Beth had convinced her to hold off.
Beth wanted one person—just one. Someone who could tell them what the cartel was up to without alerting the cartel to their interest.
Cole's voice crackled through her earpiece, low and calm from his perch on a rise overlooking the main dock. “Still clear up here. No movement yet.” He was fifty yards off, thermal binoculars trained on the marina, his broad frame a shadow against the scrubby hill.
Beth mentally mapped the terrain: the dock’s splintered planks stretching into the dark, the cluster of boats—sailboats, crabbers, a few sleek runabouts—bobbing in their slips, the water’s edge a potential escape route. The plan was simple—watch, wait, grab a straggler after the deal. No bust tonight; they needed intel, not a firefight.
Beth’s mind flickered to Gabe—his strained smile that morning, the earbud he’d kept in. Why had he been so avoidant? What was on his mind?
“You ever run a boat chase, Beth?” Cole asked, distracting Beth from her thoughts.
"Lake Lure, kid stuff," she said, surprised to find herself smiling. "You?"
He snorted softly over the radio. “Once. Nearly sank us in the Patapsco. Not planning to try those shenanigans again anytime soon."
Martinez smirked, her voice dry. “Leave the water to me, landlubbers. I’ll save your asses if it comes to that.”
Beth’s lips twitched toward a smile again, but then she caught a low rumble—the growl of an engine, muffled, approaching fast. She raised the binoculars, spotting El Halcón easing into view—a weathered trawler, paint peeling, no running lights. It slid toward slip eight, cutting its motor with a final sputter, the wake rippling out to slap the pilings.
Three figures moved on deck, shadows against the dim horizon—two unloading duffels, one at the helm.
“Got ‘em,” Beth murmured, tracking the crew. “Lookout’s at the bow—handgun, twitchy.”
“Copy,” Cole said. “Three on board, no surprises yet.”
Martinez leaned closer, her breath quickening. “Those bags look heavy—kilos, easy. Morales doesn’t mess with small change.” She shifted restlessly.
"Having second thoughts?" Beth asked.
“Second, third, fourth—you name it,” Martinez said. “This could be a career-maker, you know? Busting a Morales drop this size—kilos, armed crew, right here? My SAC’s been riding my ass for a win after that botched sting in Norfolk last year. I bring this in, I’m gold. Promotions, headlines, the works.”
She paused, her breath puffing out in a sharp cloud, her gaze flicking between the boat and Beth. “We let this go, I’m back to square one—chasing snitches for crumbs.”
Beth lowered the binoculars and turned to meet Martinez’s eyes—sharp, conflicted, burning with ambition. She got it; Martinez wasn’t just some gung-ho agent. She was DEA, mid-thirties, clawing her way up a ladder slick with politics and screw-ups. A bust like this could erase a year of heat from her bosses, prove she wasn’t a liability.
But Beth had played this game too—Afghanistan, the FBI, now Nexus. Short-term wins didn’t kill the beast; they just pissed it off.
“Listen,” she said, keeping her voice firm but quiet. “You bust this now, yeah, you get your kilos, your crew, a nice pat on the back. But Morales doesn’t blink—they’ll replace these guys by breakfast, move the drop somewhere we can’t touch. You’ll have your win, but it’s a blip."
Martinez gazed off toward the boat and said nothing.
"But if we let this play," Beth continued, "grab one of ‘em quiet, we get the spine—routes, names, the next move. You want headlines? Imagine taking down their whole Mid-Atlantic crew, not just a boatload of grunts.”
Martinez’s jaw tightened, her fingers still twitching on her weapon. “You’re asking me to gamble my ass on a maybe. I’ve got brass breathing down my neck—‘Results, Martinez, not promises.’ What if this is all we get?”
“It won't be,” Beth said, locking eyes with her, unflinching. “Rusty’s intel’s solid—Morales is flexing here, and those dead dealers mean they’re rattled. We’ve got three bodies, and this—” she nodded toward the dock—“is our way of figuring out what's going on. You want gold? This guy we grab tonight, he talks, points us to the real score. Not a bust, a takedown. Your SAC won’t care about Norfolk when you hand him a cartel lieutenant’s head.”
Martinez exhaled hard. Beth could see the gears turning in her head. Finally, Martinez nodded, short and sharp. "You'd better be right, or I'm haunting your ass from the unemployment line."
Beth felt a flicker of relief, and she raised the binoculars again. The crew was working fast, stacking duffels on the dock—black, bulky, the kind that hid death in powder form. She caught the glint of metal at one man’s waist—a pistol, no doubt.
Headlights flared briefly in the lot—a black pickup, no plates, rolling in dark and silent. Two men climbed out: one stocky baseball cap pulled low, the other lanky, jittery, hands stuffed in his pockets. They moved to the dock, meeting the Morales crew mid-slip. Words passed too low to catch, a backpack was handed over—cash, Beth figured—then the duffels traded hands. Her fingers tightened on her Glock, instinct screaming to move, to bust them, but she held back.
The handoff wrapped in minutes—clean, no hitches. The Morales crew retreated to El Halcón, the engine rumbling awake as it pulled into the bay. The truck guys loaded the duffels, the stocky one heading back to the vehicle while the lanky one lingered, fishing a cigarette from his pocket. Beth’s eyes locked on him—skinny, patchy beard, nervous twitch.
An easy mark.
“Now,” she whispered, signaling Cole and Martinez. She moved first, low and swift along the dock’s edge, boots silent on the planks, using a sailboat’s hull for cover. Cole flanked from the rise, cutting toward the lot, while Martinez slipped from the traps, her shadow merging with the night. The guy lit his cigarette, the flare briefly illuminating his face—mid-twenties, hollow cheeks, eyes darting but blind to the trio sneaking up on him.
Beth closed the gap as he exhaled smoke. She clamped one hand over his mouth and used the other to twist his arm behind his back. He gave a muffled yelp, the cigarette tumbling to the dock as he flailed. Cole was there in a heartbeat, cuffing him, while Martinez covered the truck as the stocky guy climbed in, oblivious.
The agents dragged their catch to the Suburban, shoving him into the backseat. It had taken less than thirty seconds.
Beth slid into the driver’s seat, Cole beside her, Martinez in back pinning the guy with a stare. She fired the engine, pulling slowly to a secluded spot near the boat ramp, headlights off, the marina fading behind them.
The guy squirmed, sweat beading on his brow. “I don’t know nothing, I swear—let me go!”
“Shut it,” Martinez snapped, her tone like a whip. “We know you’re with Morales, so there's no point lying to us."
Beth turned, fixing him with a cold gaze. “Let's start with your name.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Ricky. Ricky Torres.”
“Okay, Ricky,” she said, her voice level. “You just picked up a load—fentanyl, right? How often does this happen? Who’s running it?”
Ricky’s eyes flicked between them, panicked. “I—I just drive, man. They tell me where, I go. Tonight’s the first time in weeks, I swear.”
“Bullshit,” Martinez cut in, leaning closer. “That boat’s Morales—don’t play dumb. Who’s calling the shots?”
Ricky flinched, his hands trembling in the cuffs. “I don’t know names—just guys on the boat. They hand off, I take it to a garage in Dundalk. That’s it.”
Beth glanced at Cole, who gave her a minute nod, as if to say that this idea checked out. Dundalk was industrial, close to Baltimore’s ports.
“Where’s the fentanyl from?” Beth asked. “Mexico? Somewhere else?”
“Mexico, I think,” Ricky stammered. “They don’t tell me that shit. I just move it.”
Cole fixed Ricky with a dead stare. “Heard about dealers getting hit around here—Mendez, Hicks, Carter. Know anything about that?”
Ricky’s face paled. “Yeah, I—I heard about those. Tragic, you know?"
"Any idea who's responsible?" Beth asked.
Ricky shook his head. "No, man. I can tell you it wasn't me, but beyond that…"
Beth was about to press the issue, but Martinez cut her off. "The garage," she said. "What's it for, Ricky? Storage? Distribution?”
Beth cast Martinez a frustrated glance, but the DEA agent didn't notice.
Ricky hesitated, sweat dripping down his face, then broke. “It’s a meet. Big one—tomorrow night, old warehouse off Broening Highway. They’re moving a ton—kilos, cash, new guys coming in. I heard ‘em say it’s the whole crew, some boss from outta town. I wasn’t supposed to know, I just—overheard.”
"Who's this boss?" Martinez asked. "What's his name?"
“I don’t know!” Ricky whined, shrinking back. “Some Mexican guy, big shot. That’s all I got—please, I got a family!"
Beth’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, the marina lot a dark blur beyond the tinted glass. The truck’s taillights glowed faintly—Ricky’s buddy still idling, waiting. Too long, and he’d notice Ricky wasn’t back. But if they let Ricky go, he could bolt to Morales, spilling everything and torching their shot at the warehouse.
She had seconds to lock this down.
“Listen up, Ricky,” she said, her voice low, steel-hard, snapping his panicked eyes to hers. “You’ve got two choices. One: we keep you, haul you in right now—DEA books you for the drop, and your family visits you in Jessup ‘til your kids are grown. Two: you walk back, keep your mouth shut, and tomorrow night goes like you never met us. You pick wrong, Morales won’t be your problem—I will.”
Ricky’s breath hitched, his face paling under the sweat. “I—I won’t say nothing, I swear! I don’t wanna die, man, they’d kill me if they knew!”
"That's right," Cole said, nodding. "Even if you go to them now, tell them everything about this conversation, they'll still sink you to the bottom of the bay. You're a loose end."
Beth leaned close, staring into Ricky's feverish eyes. "Tell your buddy you dropped your lighter, took a piss, whatever. You breathe a word, we’ll know, and I’ll find you before they do. Nod if you get me.”
He nodded, jerky and fast, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah, yeah, I get it—please, just let me go!”
Beth glanced at Cole, who gave a tight nod, his hand already slipping a GPS dot into Ricky’s jacket collar—small, silent, a leash they’d pull later.
Martinez said nothing, her eyes sharp and alert.
Beth held Ricky’s stare a beat longer, letting the threat sink deep, then jerked her head. “Out. Walk slow—remember, nothing's wrong. If you're shaky, it's nerves because of the deal that just went down. That's all."
Cole uncuffed Ricky, and Martinez shoved the door open.
Ricky stumbled out, glancing back wild-eyed, then shuffled toward the truck, hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders hunched.
Beth watched him go, the truck’s engine rumbling as he climbed in, the taillights flaring red before it rolled out. She exhaled, the adrenaline still buzzing, thinking about the meeting.
Cole rubbed his chin. "I guess tomorrow's still on, then.”
"It had better be," Martinez grumbled. "Because if this whole thing blows up in our faces, I'm blaming you two."
"It won't," Beth said. "He’s too spooked to talk. He'll do what saves his own skin—and that means keeping quiet."
She turned the key, the engine growling awake, and pulled onto the highway, the night stretching black ahead. They had their lead—time to plan the sting and crack Morales wide open.
CHAPTER FIVE
The warehouse off Broening Highway crouched in the midday stillness of Dundalk, its brick walls crumbling under the weight of neglect, its broken windows staring blankly at the gray Patapsco River beyond. Beth Drake knelt behind a rusted dumpster, the air heavy with the sour bite of oil and river rot.
It was Thursday, just past 1:00 p.m.—hours too early for the Morales cartel meet Ricky Torres had spilled about, set for 8:00 p.m. that night. The sun was a pale smear behind thinning clouds, casting weak shadows across the industrial sprawl, and the silence pressed in, broken only by the faint slap of waves and a gull’s distant cry.
Beth adjusted her binoculars as she peered at the warehouse’s sagging facade—loading bays dented, a side gate chained shut, a skylight glinting dully. She’d parked the Suburban a block back, under a skeletal oak, and now crouched with Cole Jackson and Sarah Martinez, staking out the site well before the sting.
There was no harm in being extra prepared.
Cole squatted beside her, thermal binoculars pressed to his eyes. “No heat yet,” he said, voice a steady murmur over the breeze. “No guards, no early birds. Just us and the ghosts.”
“Gives me the creeps,” Martinez said, perched behind a stack of splintered pallets ten feet off, her DEA windbreaker zipped against the chill. She scoped the warehouse through her own lens, her sharp hazel eyes flicking over the terrain. “Guess they’re saving the party for tonight.”
Beth lowered her binoculars, nodding. “Plan’s still solid—SWAT hits the front at eight, DEA takes the back gate, we sweep in after. Harrison’s got ten operators on deck, your guys too, Martinez. Command van parks across the highway.” She pointed to a shadowed lot beyond the scrub. “Ricky said the whole crew’s coming—boss included. We need this clean.”
“Ricky’s holding,” Cole said, setting his gear down, rubbing his chin. “GPS pinged him at that flop house ‘til ten this morning, then a dive bar a mile from here—back to the house now. No funny moves. Kid’s sticking to script.”
Martinez smirked, shifting her weight. “Your death stare worked, Drake. He’s too scared to twitch. Just gotta kill time ‘til showtime.”
Beth’s jaw tightened, her gaze drifting back to the warehouse. Time was the problem—seven hours of it, stretching out like a taut wire. They’d been flat-out since Ricky’s interrogation late last night. After cutting him loose at Rock Hall around 1:00 a.m., they’d driven back to D.C., adrenaline still pumping, and crashed a dawn briefing with ASAC Harrison—pitching the sting, securing SWAT and DEA backup despite his budget grumbles. By 8:00 a.m., they’d done a quick drive-by of this site, mapping exits, then split: Cole to coordinate logistics, Martinez to sync her DEA techs, Beth to pore over Morales files at the Nexus office.
Now here they were, too early, too wired, with nothing to do but wait.
But waiting didn’t sit right with Beth.
She thought about the anchors—those small, antique weights chaining Mendez, Hicks, and Carter to the bay’s depths. Not the cartel's style. Could be the style of an enforcer they used, as Rusty had suggested, but Beth still thought the angle was worth exploring further. She needed to know more about them.
"You guys are good here, right?" she asked.
Cole frowned at her. "You got some place pressing to be?"
"I was thinking of hitting the lab, seeing what I can learn about those anchors."
Cole blinked at her, thinking. "Gabe's got them, doesn't he?"
"That's right."
Cole nodded, but whatever he was thinking, he didn't say it. "Want me to come along?"
“No,” she said, standing and brushing dirt from her jeans. “I’ll handle it solo. You two hold here—watch for any stragglers. Call if Ricky bolts.”
Martinez snorted. "If he does, he'll regret it as long as he lives."
Beth nodded, then turned, heading toward the Suburban. The anchors and Gabe—two puzzles, one trip. She’d get answers, one way or the other.
* * *
Beth pulled into the FBI forensic lab’s lot in D.C. just before 3:00 p.m., the sun dipping low, streaking the brick building with gold and shadow. She killed the engine, the Suburban ticking as it cooled, and sat for a moment, staring at the glass doors.
Gabe was inside—Dr. Gabriel Romano, the man who’d thawed her defenses on the Potomac, only to freeze her out these past weeks. She needed his take on the anchors, yes—that was technically why she was here.
But she needed him to stop dodging her even more.
She stepped out, the air crisp against her face, and slipped inside the building, badge flashing at the desk. She wound through the halls to Gabe’s workspace, a glass-walled room cluttered with steel tables and equipment. There he was, bent over a table, his dark hair a mess, glasses glinting as he studied three small, antique anchors—their polished iron catching the light like cold stars.
Beth lingered in the doorway, her breath shallow. He didn’t notice her, his focus tight on the anchors, using a pen to scratch notes on a pad. He looked worn—dark circles under his eyes, his denim jacket rumpled over a faded tee—like he hadn't slept much last night.
Then again, it seemed like he hadn't been sleeping much the past few weeks. Now that she thought about it, he always seemed to look tired, almost harried, like something was weighing on his mind. Was he in some kind of trouble?
