I was instructed to act normal for the rest of the day. It was surprisingly easy. After being briefed on how we were going to pull this off and reluctantly signing paperwork I was officially a police informant.

     Once they released me, with specific instructions not to deviate too far from my normal routine, I swung by Henry's to change clothes. He'd gone to work by the time I pulled up to his house, but he'd left a message written on the dry-erase board on the fridge:

     Talk later.

     After a shower and a change I drove to Taste Teas and went through the motions. I took orders, made coffee, kept Jackson and Pasha from killing each other-- the usual--while I pretended like it was an ordinary day.

     Around eleven Manny called. "How are you doing, Evie?"

     "Okay."

     "You don't need to be brave on my account."

     "Terrified."

     "I wish I could tell you that everything would work out..."

     "I know the risks. And all of you will be there, right?" There was a hint of pleading in my voice.

     He didn't bother to reassure me. "Evie, Detective Graham--"

     "I know."

     "You know?"

     "He's just using me to get to Delgatto."

     "It's more than that. Patrick Graham only cares about one thing: his career. He doesn't care if you get hurt."

     "I know--"

     "No, you don't. If something goes wrong in there, you may not be his first priority."

     The thought was disturbing but unsurprising. Graham knew I was a fast track to his real target, and once I led him down the rabbit hole my usefulness was dubious at best. That's not to say that Detective Graham didn't care, only that I was mildly expendable if push came to shove in his quest to rid the city of drugs.

     And this wasn't really about drugs of course, it was about Kodi Nash. As far as I knew she was still laying in that hospital in a coma after her cocaine overdose, and her mayor father was none too happy. He'd made a promise to the city to find the largest distributor of cocaine and bring them to justice. It had scored him some high approval marks with the people who didn't know any better I guess, but logistically speaking the task was a little more daunting than that.

     Detective Graham didn't care either way, bringing in Delgatto was the surest path to a promotion. My place in all this was to simply lure him out of hiding. That could take weeks, if not months.

     Around four pm I was wiping down the counters during a slow period when one of the cops came in dressed in a cheap suit and with a metal suitcase. I led her to the office and shut the door behind us.

     "Nice place," she said. "Take off your shirt."

     I pulled my blouse over my head and stood before her. The suitcase snapped open when she pushed in the latches. Inside was the microphone, small and unassuming, and attached to a few inches worth of thin black wire.

     "I've alway been conflicted about putting theses things on women," she said as she started unloading the equipment from the suitcase. "On the one hand your breasts can work in our favor, on the other they can make it more difficult to place the wire."

     "What?"

     "Sorry. I'm a chatter. Makes it a little less awkward--" I shivered when she touched me. "Sorry. Cold hands."

     She went to work attaching the wiring to me, yakking on about how she fell into her line of work--not that I was listening. When she was done she walked out of there like nothing had happened.

     I went back into zombie mode and finished my work. By ten o'clock I was sweating bullets but the bed was made and the only thing left to do was lay in it so I locked up Taste Teas and slid into the car--ready to see this to the end.

     West twenty-ninth street was easy enough to find. It was in one of the old neighborhoods that had existed well before a century's worth of urban expansion had made the city what it was now. It was a metropolis now. One of the largest cities in Florida population-wise, and one of the largest in the U.S. land-wise.

     Despite the growth that had occurred from population swell and outward expansion the south side had remained almost stagnant. "A lot of these people are still not connected to the city's sewer system," my mother had told me once.

     "What's that mean?" I was always curious as a child, and no comment went without a follow-up question from my precocious mouth.

     "It means that some of the people in these houses don't have running water. They have to use well water instead."

     "Why?"

     "Because they're poor. The city don't won't to spend millions of taxpayer money giving indoor plumbing to a neighborhood that pays the least amount of taxes." Mama never did hold her punches, only strove to make me aware of how the world truly was--my innocence be damned.

     The street names on this side of town still retained the old numerical system. First street. Second street. Third street. All I had to do was start at one and count up until I found it. Twenty-ninth street was situated near one of the train yards. The street was narrow and dark but I found it right after twenty-eighth street. Trying to read the buildings in the dark for the numbers eight thirty-four was the harder part.

     I almost passed the place driving around in the dark. It was both obscure and completely obvious, but I found it, an old factory hidden behind an overgrowth of trees. I'd seen it before--from the highway. It easily rose above the smaller buildings that dotted the region. As a child I'd craned my neck from the back seat to get a look at it from atop the I10.

     "It's a cigar factory," my mother had said to eight year old me.

     A large sign had always perched atop the building facing the expressway in a proud sense of self-advertisement. Swisher International, Inc.

     It was abandoned now. The five-hundred or so workers who'd packaged their products for decades had been sacked after a swift company decision to move the factory to Mexico, or India, or China--the particulars were fuzzy now. What I do remember is Channel Five news anchors Sara Santiago and Bo Conway feigning empathy as the field reporter interviewed the about-to-be-layed-off line workers.

     I was a junior in college at the time. Since then, the building had decayed under neglect. Grass grew wild and untamed, the old brick walls collected smatterings of grime and mold, and the windows were tinted with age. Some of them had been broken out, probably by teenaged loiterers with nothing else to do.

     I drove my car up the old cracked pavement until I'd passed through the large open gates and parked in the lot closest to the front door. I took a moment to compose myself by taking a couple of deep breaths. When that didn't work I tried self-platitude.

     Everything will probably work out.

     But I didn't believe that. On the way over I'd looked over my shoulder hoping I was being followed, but the further out I'd driven the more alone I'd felt. Manny had warned me not to bother looking for them. They were following...and listening.

     They would be ready in case the worst happened. But that didn't make me feel safer. I'd done the numbers. If someone inside the factory meant to harm me it would take only seconds. That was minutes too long for the police to recognize I was in danger and storm the castle to save me.

     Earlier today I'd done myself the disservice of researching statistics on CI mortality. A CI dying in the crossfire was a common enough occurrence to send me into another panic attack. I took another moment to calm myself, aware that both Delgatto and the cops were waiting on me to move.

     But I was frozen imagining all the things Delgatto could possibly want with me. What if all of this was nothing but a ruse to lure me out here to kill me? What would I do then? Fight or Flight? Neither of those options seemed realistic given the circumstances but if I had to choose, I would choose to go down fighting.

     I couldn't hope to fight anyone by myself. I wasn't a fighter. And even though multiple people had advised me to invest in weapons--mace, pepper spray, knives--nothing too outrageous, I'd never gotten around to it. I'd never felt threatened enough to seriously consider it until now.

     I glanced over at the glove compartment. I'd ignored it the whole drive but now it seemed to call to me, luring me with the promise of security. The contract I'd signed had forbidden me from carrying weapons. It was written there in black and white--no knives, no bats, no tasers, no guns...but...

     I reached out and opened the glovebox letting it sit open while I stared at Jackson's gun. If he were here he'd tell me to take it. If Manny were here he'd tell me not to.

     I tossed aside doubt. If something did happen, it was better to go out fighting. I maneuvered the gun from the glove compartment as quietly as possible, careful not to alert the listening police that something was wrong. It slid out easier than expected, cradling handle first in my palm.

     I'd forgotten how heavy it was, but something about the weight comforted me and stifled part of the fear until I could breath again. I tucked it into the waistband of my slacks, careful to layer the end of my blouse over the slight bulge.

     When I finally stepped out of the car, I was ready for whatever was waiting for me in there. The building loomed over me like a giant, old, cold, and uninviting. The scent of pine clung to the air barely masking the scent of...was that cigarettes? Was the factory still drenched in the smell of cigarettes all these years later?

     My eyes strained through the darkness toward the front door but no light could be found from inside of the building or around it.

     "You have to go around back."

     When I heard the man's voice I almost jumped out of my skin. I scanned the area until my eyes landed on the dimming red flame at the end of a cigarette. The man was sitting on the curb, the offending object dangling from his mouth.

     Ah. There was the source of the smell.

     "You ain't supposed to go through the front," he said. "They do the drop-offs from out back where the loading area is."

     "Loading area?"

     It was hard to see but I think he nodded. "Come on," he pushed himself up to his feet and flicked the cigarette away. "I'll show you."

      He began walking before I responded so I followed at a distance, weary of what was waiting for me but empowered by the steel hugged against my waist. Our little funeral march proceeded to the melodic trill of crickets.

     The back of the building was lined with four large numbered doors. Doors Two through Four were down, chained shut with massive padlocks that were brown with rust. Bay number One was open, it's large roller door broken and raised. From inside a light shone just dim enough not to alert any neighboring houses that something was amiss.

     The source of the light was a mystery. How could they be using power without alerting the electric company of their presence? Generator? Battery?

     The man led me inside and we walked through the bones of the dead factory in tense silence. It was mostly empty except for some outdated machinery that had been abandoned. When we wound our way through the factory's rotting hallways I spotted other people. There were women crowded around tables, their faces hidden behind goggles and marks.

     Their gloved hands worked to carefully to spoon just the right amount of white powdered substance, presumably cocaine but who knows, into various bags of differing sizes. Those bags were then placed on top of lab scales and weighed for preciseness.

     Above them was a room that seemed to float above the factory like a great royal palanquin hovering over its lowly subjects. An old metal staircase led up to it. Mr. Cigarette Guy led me right to it, the metal moaning under his weight as his feet stomped up them.

     When he turned back and saw me hesitating he got annoyed, "Come on!"

     I pressed a foot on the bottom step, laying my weight in just to make sure and then climbed after him. At the top we walked right into a room that had been some sort of supervising office once upon a time. Nothing was in there except for an ugly desk, a few chairs, and Delgatto, his back against the door as he peered down at the peons below us.

     He smiled when he turned around and saw me, "Pat her down."

     Mr. Guy came up and gripped me by the hips like he owned that shit. He went up first, raising my arms and patting around them. When his hands started inching down I panicked. What would be more upsetting for them to find--the gun or the wire?

     When his fingers grazed the sides of my breasts I intentionally overreacted. "Hey! Watch the fingers, buddy." I looked over at Delgatto, my tone channeling one of our more indignant customers. "Is this how you treat everyone? Do I look like some kind of criminal to you?"

     "That's enough, Damon." He said at Mr. Man. "Give us some privacy."

     "You sure?"

     "Do what I said."

     Damon, AKA The Guy, left us and closed the door behind him.

     "You're late," Delgatto said.

     "There was traffic."

     He smirked at that and turned back to the window to look down at the masked workers in the factory below. "It's a great operation isn't it?"

     "I guess."

     "My father started this business. He used to mop floors for a living before he got layed-off." He peered over to make sure I was listening to him and I obliged by playing the role but I wasn't concerned about learning his detailed family history. "You weren't alive then but heroin was king. I remember this old lady that lived down the block from us. Got her head bashed in one night when a junkie broke in looking for cash. Daddy was pissed. She never had children so he stepped in to look after her every once in awhile, you know? It hit him hard."

     "Police didn't do nothing about it of course, so he and a couple of his boys got the idea to form their own little...militia so to speak. They'd protect their own if the cops wouldn't." He snickered under his breath. "The old man died in prison and I inherited the keys to the kingdom. I think I did pretty good for myself. What do you think?"

     "Sure."

     He turned to me and looked me up and down. "Now, you been all up in my house but we ain't met yet. Evelyn Harper, right?"

     "Might as well call me Evie as this point."

     That earned me a smile. "Usually when I'm followed around by women they're just a bunch a jump-offs tryin' to find my wallet through my dick, but you--you haven't even looked my way. Even though you been in my house and my club. So I'm thinking, 'she ain't here for dick and she ain't here for money. Why she here?'"

     "Then a friend of mine come talking about how you're friends with Abbey." The face of this friend of his flashed into my mind. The light skin, wavy hair, laughing hazel eyes. He'd promised not to tell, but I should have known better. "And then it made sense. All of this is about that bitch that almost died."

     He was talking about Kodi Nash, still hooked up to heart monitors and breathing tubes at St. Theresa's. The latest news hadn't looked good, especially not with her being comatose for weeks.

     "Bitch and her little prep school friends come down to the club looking to party." He gave a half-assed shrug. "Coke's a hell of a drug."

     His apathy bothered me so much I engaged with him, "You sold cocaine to a bunch of teenagers."

     "Not me. Abbey did."

     "What?"

     "She was one of our top sellers. Especially with the rich folks." He walked over to me, his demeanor calm but imposing. "All humans love to get high. It's like it's in the DNA. Doesn't matter your age, or height, or weight, or gender, or color, or income bracket--from King's Alley to Queen's Dock, everybody loves to get fucked up!"

     "I don't."

     "What, you ain't never got drunk before? You ain't never know someone who had to sneak out for a cigarette break because they can't go three more minutes without it? Hell, I chose this place to package our drugs because it was an old cigar factory. These walls birthed one addiction and now all this time later it births another. Shit's poetic!"

     "What does any of this have to do with Abbey?" I kept my voice steady but I was starting to get agitated with his friendly schtick.

     "Right, right. See, everybody loves drugs, right? But not everybody is willing to buy from some six foot one scary dude in the hood. But when they saw that Sweet Polly Anna was safe out here, well... They were willing to play ball with someone like her if not someone like me. Chance called it target marketing."

     "Kodi Nash almost died."

     "Addicts die every day. She ain't special 'cause she's the Mayor's daughter. Had it been me I'd have let the bitch choke on her own vomit then tossed her whore ass into the trash where she belonged, but her friends were with her and they took her to that hospital."

     "Of course they did. They're her friends they wanted to help her."

     "Help her? Her friends were the ones pushing her to try the coke. I saw her little fast ass. She was downing that liquor like a champ and I think she had some weed too but it was her friends who pushed that harder shit at her." He tisked, his face utterly devoid of empathy. "Sometimes the Devil ain't across the tracks. Sometimes he's sitting next to you in homeroom."

     I was left speechless by that. Some part of me could believe that peer pressure was just that powerful--I'd been young once. The other part of me needed a villain in this tale.

     "Oh does that ruin your little picture of me? I'm not responsible for every bad thing that happens. Sometimes it's me...and other times it's Chance." He laughed at that like it was the funniest thing in the world. "I supply the coke, and the heroin, and the weed, and the girls but I don't make people do nothing they don't want to do already."

     "No one cares whether you forced her to take the drugs or not. Every cop in the city is out for your head."

     "They didn't give a damn before. When that little girl opens her eyes or dies--whatever--they'll go back to not caring. Then I'll get back to business, which is why I called you here."

     "I don't understand."

     "I've been looking to expand my empire. Our rivals are small time. We can wipe them out easy but I want more. I want all drugs in the city run by me."

     "Ambitious."

     "You sound like Chance." He stepped closer toward me and I fought the urge to get away from him. "I'll start small. Standing on street corners only gets you so far. I already started sending my dealers to other neighborhoods. You know what I've learned from this?"

     "I have no idea."

     "Follow the young people. Have you ever really seen an old addict?"

     "Yes--"

     "Yes! But their lifetime addicts. Other adults know better. They past that period of experimenting. Kids are stupid. They got no life experience, no real responsibilities, and disposable income from their parents to spend partying instead of on books and shit. To make any real money, forget the old addict and follow the stupid young people."

     He ought to put that on a t-shirt.

     "Spring break is a great season for selling, just like any holiday. I've got people who work the beach and some of the suburbs, but what I really want is the college."

     Oh no.

     "While I had my people tailing you they found out more than just your name, Evie Harper. You own a coffee shop that's right down the street from the school, right."

     "I'm not selling drugs for you."

     "Let me finish. I want the university students."

     "I don't comply and you send your hired thugs to shoot at me just like before, right?"

     "What?" He seemed perplexed by this.

     "You shot at me in front of Abby's mother's house. I have the bullet holes in the side of my car to prove it. Your people also spray painted graffiti on the side of it and I'm betting you're the ones who slashed my tires..."

     "Oh that. That wasn't about you. That was for your boyfriend."

     Harley? What...

     "You're perfect for my next operation." he said, his voice raising in excitement. "I want the kids and you've got the location. More than that, look at you. You wear sundresses and matching headbands. You know how to smile at people. Make them feel comfortable. You got people skills--"

     "I am not selling drugs for you--"

     He didn't hit me that hard. Open palm, restrained...like someone smacking a dog with a newspaper. It was a mild show of force considering what I know he's capable of. I placed a hand on my left cheek, sure that I'd imagined such a violation, except that it stung. He hadn't hit me hard enough to leave a bruise, but he had hit me.

     "Don't interrupt me," he said with a sternness. "I wasn't gonna make you deal. You don't have the experience for that. I already have dealers ready, all I need is somewhere that can house the supply until--"

     "No." I didn't even hesitate my refusal. What he was suggesting was deplorable. Selling to a bunch of inexperienced, naive, barely-adult college students--it was out of the question. Neither I nor Taste Teas was going to be complicit in illegal activity. And I certainly would never agree to serve people coffee with a side of that--that poison.

     "This isn't a negotiation," his voice grew colder by the second. "You're going to do this."

     It probably would have been smarter to agree, but I couldn't fake the revulsion I felt. "Or what? You'll kill me like you killed Abbey."

     "Not a bad idea." Before I could react he crossed the distance between us and wrapped his thick, rough fingers around my neck. My hands flew up and gripped his forearms, trying to push him off of me. Instead he pushed me back until I stumbled over the desk.

     "If you can't work with me," he said as he tightened his grip. "then you die. It's as simply as that."

     An unnatural croak came from my lips as my lungs struggled to find oxygen. I tried using his shoulders for leverage and pushed with all my strength but he was too strong.

     Is this what Abbey felt when she died? The pain? The panic? Was the last thing I would ever feel be this man's hands on my throat as I slipped into the unknown? Would the last thing I see be his face? Had it been the last thing Abbey had seen?

     Everything ached. I struggled again, trying to push him away but I was too weak. The cops were likely on their way in...and if I could just get him off of me for a moment...just wound him enough to make him stop...the cops could do the rest.

     My right hand abandoned the losing fight and crept toward the gun. I trembled when my fingers grazed the metal of the grip. I slid it out so quickly Delgatto didn't notice. His eyes were glazed over in excitement, as if he was getting off on watching me suffocate.

     I propped the gun between us, angling the barrel up toward whatever part of him was in it's path. What did Manny say about firing guns again? Both hands...not an option. Feet firmly planted...not an option. Squeeze don't pull...

     I squeezed.

     I knew it was coming but I still jumped at the sound of the bullet leaving the chamber. The gun snapped back out of my lose grip and kicked me right in the gut. I cried out and quickly realized I could breath again so I inhaled until my lungs burned. I sprung up, gripping the table as I doubled over clutching the edge of the desk. When my breathing calmed I looked over at my attacker, holding my aching side where the recoil had bruised me.

     I was prepared to make a run for it, but I was frozen in place. Delgatto took quick shallow breaths as he held a hand to the wound I'd given him. Blood seeped into the white shirt he was wearing, making a bloody patch where the bullet had hit him. The stain kept growing...right in the lower part of his chest. He stumbled back, tripping over his own feet until he collapsed against the wall.

     I watched his breathing slow--his chest rising and falling from quick and frantic to slow, and slower, and slower, until it stopped. He met my eyes one last time before the light in them dimmed and sputtered out a breathless, "Bitch." before his body slumped over lifeless.

     This time I didn't scream. The last time I'd seen a dead body had been a shock—the blood the guts—too much...But this time, watching as the light faded from his eyes and his breathing came to an unceremonious end...it was so unreal that my body was unsure of how to respond.

     The world went silent and I was only aware of the slumping figure in the corner of my vision. I let out a sharp breath, oblivious that I had been holding it in. From there it was all a blur of voices and sounds from the edge of reality. Shouting and shooting and doors opening and me dropping the gun, I think. Someone might have said, "She's in shock.", but I'm not sure.

     My senses only started to come into play when I become aware of Manny taking my hand and gently leading me to a chair. "Evie? Okay, you don't have to talk now but they're going to want to know what happened."

     "I shot him."

     "I see that. Why?"

"He attacked me."

     "Oh. Self-defense then." I nodded. "Where'd you get the gun?"

     "Stole it from Jackson."

     "Christ. That complicates things. Are you sure didn't find it? In here?"

     I paused. "...I'm not sure."

     He squeezed my hand and looked me deep in my eyes. "Because finding guns in a place like this wouldn't be out of the ordinary. When they search the body, I won't be surprised if they find weapons on him."

     "What are you trying to say?"

     "All I'm saying is Jackson's not supposed to have a weapon because he's a felon. You're not supposed to have one because you don't have a license, and...no one would bat an eye if, you know--" Before he could finish he spotted Detective Graham walking towards us. "Just don't say anything about it yet. I'm gonna make this go away. I promise."

     "What happened here?" Detective Graham asked me as he stared down at Delgatto's lifeless body.

     "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to kill him."

     He shrugged at the corpse with dispassion. "It doesn't matter. Do you have any idea how many drugs we found in this factory? This is going to be the bust of my career--the bust of the decade."

     "Oh. Okay." But I wasn't concerned about his bust. I could only see Delgatto, his blood pooled in his shirt, it dripping onto the floor...

     Detective Graham didn't seem to concerned about it as he stared down at the dead kingpin. "Well, it looks like you don't need to worry about Angelo Delgatto anymore, Ms. Harper. You're off the hook."

****************

A/N: Sorry about the delay. It was a rough October. Hurricane Matthew knocked out our power for over a week and my next few weeks were full of work stuff and health stuff. Bad news is this chapter is mildly unedited (And subject to minor change in the future). Good news however, we are damn close to the final chapter of this book. Thank all of you for being so patient with me.