Butcher's POV
“His name is Derek Abrams.”
Sword dropped a photograph onto my desk.
“Thirty-six. Works for a towing company outside Anderson. Nothing serious on his record.”
I studied the bastard who'd followed Natalie's Kia.
“Connection to the Boilers?”
“His company handled four jobs for a garage associated with them in the last three months.”
Crank leaned forward.
“Could be legitimate.”
“Could be,” Sword agreed.
“Except Abrams called in sick the morning somebody shot out Natalie's tire.”
“Convenient,” I muttered.
“Security footage shows him leaving work in that gray SUV. Same damaged bumper and roof rack.”
I leaned back.
“So he calls in sick, follows my woman, then dumps the vehicle.”
“Looks that way.”
Crank rubbed his jaw.
“Question is whether he knew what was coming.”
