9 The Wrong Kind of Police

Mateo's Pov 

But Shaw held up a hand, still locking his eyes on mine. "I've actually got a lot of things to ask." He walked towards me, measuring each step. 

He didn't shove or yell. He simply grabbed my arm and pulled me firmly towards the gaping maw of the van. "But it's not like you'll tell me the truth, is it?"

He leaned in close, dropping his voice to a whisper meant only for me, and a faint, knowing smile touched his lips. "So never mind.”

It's been nothing but a tomb on wheels inside the van, and for half an hour, the only sounds were the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic crunch of tires on gravel.

Shaw sat across from me with an ever-relaxed posture relaxed but his eyes never left mine. They were a constant, low-grade surveillance system, peering at me in the intermittent flashes of passing streetlights. He just… observed without saying a word.

The city lights had long faded in the rearview, replaced by the deep, consuming black of the outskirts. We finally slowed, turning into a neighborhood that was less a community and more a collection of shadows. 

The street lamps were few, far between, and their sickly yellow glow did little to push back the darkness, and that only made the voids between them seem deeper.

We stopped. Not at a precinct, not at a holding facility. We stopped before a hulking silhouette that blotted out the sky… an old, battered building with broken windows. It definitely looked like an abandoned warehouse.

“It is an abandoned warehouse…” Shaw’s calm voice cut through the silence. He was still holding my right arm, with a firm grip that wasn't the least brutal, as we stood before a wide, rust-streaked garage door.

I turned my gaze sideways, studying his profile in the dim light. "Aren't you supposed to be police officers?" I asked, my voice dry, one brow raised in a question that was more accusation than query.

Without a word, he let out a soft, airy smirk, and a chill that had nothing to do with the night air traced a path down my spine.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He finally turned to look at me, widening his smile just enough to be cruel. "You said it yourself, Mr. Mateo." He raised both shoulders in an elaborate, mock-helpless shrug and let them drop. "Why would a Consigliere run to the cops for help when he can take matters into his own hands?"

The pieces, the ones I’d been so arrogantly juggling, suddenly froze in mid-air. I paused. My eyes dropped to the cracked concrete at my feet as my brain, usually a well-oiled machine of prediction and control, scrambled to recalibrate. I blinked, once, twice, trying to force the new reality into focus.

Then my eyes went wide as soon as the realization hit me, and my gaze snapped back to his.

“Then—”

"Exactly, Mr. Mateo." He cut off my unspoken thoughts. "We're the Sire's men. But of course," he added, dipping his tone into a conspiratorial whisper as Kane grunted and began hauling the heavy garage door open with a screech of protesting metal.

"We can't be doing mafia stuff around the estate with the guests around. Not when his image is already hanging at the edge of a cliff with the stunt your mistress pulled."

The door clanged open, revealing a yawning mouth of darkness that smelled of dust, oil, and something older, something metallic and faintly coppery.

Shaw pulled me deeper into the warehouse’s gut, and our footsteps echoed in the cavernous space, bouncing off corrugated metal walls until he stopped us short before a single, grim piece of furniture: an iron chair, bolted to the concrete floor and backed against a rust-streaked wall. 

Empty, dusty shelves surrounded it, and the space was deliberately arranged to form a cage.

He turned away from me, shifting his focus to the hulking silhouette by the door. "Kane," his voice snapped. 

"I don't see the items." He scanned the empty shelves again, whipping his head back towards the big guy. 

So his name is Kane, I filed away. Quite fitting for a brute like him.

"Where did you put them?" Shaw's voice echoed around the building.

Kane, who was slowly hauling the heavy garage door down, leaving it half-open, paused. "What items?" He raised a brow.

Shaw took a deep, shuddering breath. "The items in the briefcase, Kane. “The items."

A slow dawn of understanding broke over Kane’s face. "Ohh… That one." He raised a single, thick finger.

"Yes... That one. Where did you put them?"

"But I thought you said you'd bring them with you?"

I saw the transformation in Shaw in real-time. He bit his lower lip so hard I expected to see blood. 

His hands curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides, and his entire body began vibrating with a suppressed, volcanic anger. "What is your problem, you knucklehead?" he hissed.

"The only thing you're good at is exchanging blows while fighting! Why… can't you just be reliable for once?"

To my genuine surprise, Kane took a half-step back. It was fascinating, watching this mountain of a man shrink under the verbal lashing of his leaner partner. It's funny how the bigger one is mostly scared of the smaller one.

"What, bro?" Kane’s voice was almost plaintive. "You said you'd bring it yourself! Why get mad at me now?"

"Ugh!" Shaw let out a sound of pure frustration, swinging an arm through the air as he stalked towards the half-open door. "Just stay here until I get back!" 

He halted, spinning on his heel to point a rigid, accusing finger at Kane. "And I swear, if you do so much as lay a finger on him while I'm out, I swear…"

"Fine, bro! Fine!" Kane cut him off, raising both hands. "Please, don't take my stuff away from me. I won't do anything, I promise."

"You'd better," Shaw muttered, striding out into the night. 

The van door slammed shut, and the engine roared to life, as its sound began to rapidly fade into the distance.

Silence descended, deeper and more profound than before. Kane took a deep breath, grabbed the edge of the garage door, and slammed it shut with a final, echoing BOOM that sealed us in complete darkness for a moment before my eyes adjusted to the single, bare bulb hanging from a wire. 

He turned, leaned his broad back against the closed door, and faced me. 

Slowly, he took out a cigarette from his breast pocket, tapping it against his thumbnail.

“Now's my chance,” I thought, spreading a slow, calculated smile across my lips.

"Hey, big guy…”