“Danny, for Christ’s sake, we’re late.” Brad takes in the scene, but impatience won’t allow him to take in the atmosphere. “Let’s go.” He reverses his steps, jerking his head. “Now.”
“This isn’t done,” I tell Rose, backing up.
“No, Danny, it’s done.” She looks up, and I swear there are tears in her eyes. “Trust me.”
I shake my head, not prepared to believe it. “I’ll be back,” I say, turning and leaving the room. I pull the door closed and take my keys from my pocket, locking it with the master. Something unsettling tells me that Rose doesn’t plan on being here when I get back, so I need to ensure she is. And not only because we’ve got shit to iron out, but because, as Adams pointed out, his contact wouldn’t think twice about killing her. “Not a word,” I warn Brad as we head back downstairs.
“Fine.”
“Talk to me.”
“It’s the shooter from the hospital. He’s dead.”
“What the fuck?”
“I went to the prison this morning. They turned me away. He was found in his cell. Twenty stab wounds to the neck. Worried he’d talk, I expect.”
“Fucking great.” I shake my head to myself.
“And Adams—”
“Don’t tell me he’s dead too.”
“No, he’s hiding. Somewhere in the Hamptons, but not at his own place. Don’t worry, we’ll smoke him out.”
Amber is loitering in the entrance hall when we make it there. “Go home,” I order without looking at her, striding down the steps and slipping my shades over my squinting eyes. “And stay the fuck gone.” The men will have to find another in-house whore.
We get in the car and Brad starts the engine, putting his foot on the pedal, racing down the driveway.
All I can see in my mind’s eye is Rose’s tears. Rose doesn’t cry. What the hell is going on?
The last of the shop staff is leaving when we pull up, and he waves out the window of his truck as he passes us on the mud track road leading up to the shack. The water is especially calm this evening, still and almost eerie. I get out and walk down to the shoreline, staring out at the sun dipping on the horizon. I hear the slide of the huge bolt of a container behind me, then the creak of the door being pulled open. Looking over my shoulder, I find one of the men pulling up to the container in a forklift, the telescopic arms extending into the metal shed and reappearing with one of the jet skis across them. “Ready to go,” he calls, motioning out to the water.
The deep chug of a boat rumbles in the distance, slowly appearing around a rocky section of the bay. “You have to be kidding me.” I say as the logo splattered down the side of the boat comes into view. “Miami Cruises?”
“You get a free trip.” Volodya’s Russian accent from behind tears my eyes away from the water, and I turn, finding him leaning on the open door of his Rolls Royce.
“What happened to the eighteen-wheeler?”
“It’s a bit conspicuous. There’s nothing strange about a tour boat loaded with jet skis.”
“Very creative,” I say, strolling over to him and accepting his extended hand.
“We’re branching out into water sports.” He motions to the jet ski still on the arms of the forklift. “Hope you don’t mind a bit of competition.”
“Sure I’ll cope. All this will be a lot easier when we’re operating from Byron’s Reach.”
“Hurry up that day.” Volodya strides across to the forklift and runs a palm down the side of the Sea-Doo. “Beautiful machine. I bet some fun can be had on one of these things.”
“Not that one, since it’s a shell.”
Volodya laughs. “How have you been, Danny? I hear the grim reaper is out to get you.”
“I am the grim reaper, Volodya,” I retort, reaching into my pocket when my phone rings. Spittle’s name on the screen rattles me, and I slam my thumb down on the accept button. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here,” I hiss, wandering away from Volodya .
“Yeah, I know. I’ve been trying to fucking call you all day, Danny. The FBI and half the MPD are currently heading your way. I’d say you have ten minutes tops.”
My eyes immediately start scanning the area. “What?”
“Ten minutes, if you’re lucky.”
“Fuck.” I hang up and find Brad. “Code fucking red,” I grate. “Volodya, turn your boat around and get the fuck out of here.”
“What’s going on?” he asks, watching as I march down the dock to the forklift.
“Company is on the way. There’s a hidden track halfway down the lane that’ll take you onto the main highway. Find it.”
He doesn’t hang around to get details, going straight to his mobile and calling in a mission abort before rushing to his car. “Fuck’s sake, Black,” he spits, his Rolls Royce wheel spinning away, kicking up the gravel and dirt. The forklift screams its way back to the container as my men all work urgently to get it closed up. I pelt toward the shack, grabbing the first wetsuit I can find and getting myself into it. I hear the men land in the café, hear the tops of beer bottles being popped off and a pack of cards being shuffled. I fly into the workshop . . . and skid to a stop when I see the charred remains of my Sea-Doo. “Fuck,” I curse, heading back into the store. “Brad, give me a hand.”
He’s with me in a second, taking the front of the Yamaha jet ski nearest the doors. “Lift,” he grunts, going red in the face. “Fuck, where’s the trailer?”
“No time.” I shuffle toward him as he shuffles back, his eyes looking like they could pop out his head. “Come on, you fanny,” I tease.
“Go fuck yourself.”
We manage to get it down to the shore just before the sound of sirens drown the air. And then we both turn and take in the invasion of unmarked cars coming at us from all directions. “What a surprise,” I say quietly, wading into the water and tugging the Yamaha in. I recognize the suited prick walking toward me as one of Spittle’s colleagues, Harold Higham. He has resting smug face. “All this for me?” I ask, climbing onto the seat of my jet ski.
“You won’t mind if we have a look around,” he says, casting his beady eyes around the open space, his men doing the same.
“You can do what you like.” I’m polite. It’s sickening. “With a warrant.”
“Of course.” Higham drags a piece of paper from his inside pocket and waves it in the air.
My coolness waivers for a split second. “And what are you looking for?”
“We’ll see, I guess.”
Translated: I haven’t got a fucking clue. I grit my teeth and get back into the water, wading my way back to the shore. “Will this take long? I was looking forward to my evening ride on the water.”
Higham’s shrewd stare is pinned on me, his jaw ticking. “You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you, Black? Swaggering around town like some kind of fucking king. Leaving blood and death in your wake. Your time is coming, my boy.”
My eyes must be glass as I hold his stare. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Higham.”
“Not this time.” He tosses the warrant at me. “Your days are like your father’s. No more.”
I’m forced to call on endless control before I grab the fucker and pull out his teeth one by one with plyers. “That’s rather insensitive of you, Higham.” My voice is unmistakably quivering with rage. “I only buried him yesterday.”
“Sir,” an officer calls from across the yard.
Higham snarls at me before stomping to the first container. “Get it open,” he yells, prompting three officers to step forward, each holding a battering ram.
I remain where I am, watching as an army of agents charge down one of my container doors. I could tell them the doors are unlocked. But I won’t. Fat bastards look like they could do with a workout. Sitting on a nearby rock, I watch as they ram-raid the first container and Higham comes out, his brow wet, his face twisted.
“Beautiful machines,” I say. “Want to buy one?”
Higham hisses and st
amps his way over to the next container, barking orders left and right.
“Fucking hell, Danny,” Brad whispers out the side of his mouth. “This is a bit close for comfort.”
“They don’t even know what they’re fucking looking for.” The FBI is a constant ball-ache, but fucking clueless. They know we have money, but they have no idea where it comes from, and it’s been their mission to find out for decades. I kick my feet out and get comfortable, watching Higham ordering the beating down of door after door. I can’t deny it, I’m tense as they search the containers that are literally loaded. I can hear Brad’s heart hammering ten to the dozen, his feet shifting in the gravel. “Be cool,” I whisper, getting up and wandering over casually, being glared at by every cop I pass. I lean my shoulder on the side of one of the doors, motioning to the Sea-Doo that was hanging off the end of the dock not ten minutes ago. “If it’s power between the legs you want to feel, I recommend that one.”
Higham’s up in my face quickly, steam billowing from his ears. “I’m onto you, Black.”
I push my forehead to his, my eyes blazing. “I’m quaking in my fucking wetsuit, Higham.”
Wisely, he backs up, his frustration obvious. “You’re as arrogant as your father was.”
“Don’t get personal, Higham. You’ll regret it,” I warn, moving forward, prompting a nearby agent to reach for his belt. I throw him a death stare. “Calm down, Tackleberry.”
Brad chuckles as he approaches, lighting a cigarette before offering me one.
“Are you done?” I ask, accepting and slipping it between my lips. “Unless you’re in the market for a jet ski, I don’t think you have any business around here.”
“Get me a hammer,” Higham spits, holding his hand out as he glares at me. I don’t let my eyes waver from his as one of his minions runs to his car, returning a few moments later with an axe rather than what his superior requested.
Taking it by the handle, Higham swings it a few times, all cocky as he wanders over to the nearest jet ski. Which happens to be the one we just hurried back into the container. I sense all of my men tensing as Higham proceeds to smash the machine to pieces while everyone looks on. I glance across to Brad who’s broken out in a sweat. Me? I smile, making my right-hand-man give me a what the hell? look.
“You done?” I ask as Higham heaves and kicks pieces of the jet ski away, looking for something he won’t find. “Or are you going to smash up every jet ski I have?” I ask, motioning to the one beside it. “Feel free. Because with every one you damage, you’re racking up I-owe-yous, Higham.”
His nostrils flare, and he throws the axe down into the dirt, throwing his arm in the air in signal for his men to move out. “This isn’t done.”
I pout, lighting my Marlboro and pulling in deep. “Nice seeing you, Higham,” I say, exhaling thick smoke all over him. It takes everything in him not to cough.
“Yeah,” he mutters, marching away, frustration pouring from him.
As soon as they’ve fucked off, I take one last drag of my cigarette, thoughtful, before flicking it away.
“What the fuck?” Brad says quietly, joining me. “Where the hell are the guns?”
I step toward one of the containers and lightly tap the wall, looking back at him. “Always expect the worst.”
“Jesus,” he breathes, putting his cigarette out and immediately lighting another.
My phone rings, and I pull it out. “What?” I mutter down the line to Ringo.
“Why the hell has Volodya’s boat just chugged past me with no jet skis?”
I head to the shack, pulling down the zip of my wetsuit. “FBI stopped by.”
“What?”
“You heard.”
“Was anyone gonna tell me?” Ringo asks, full of annoyance. “I’ve been bobbing up and down on this broken piece of crap for hours. So far, I’ve caught a dead octopus, a pair of panties, a license plate, and a shark. A fucking shark.”
I stop yanking my wetsuit down my body and dump my arse on a bench in the changing room. And I laugh, a proper belly laugh, my head thrown back.
“Fuck you, Danny,” Ringo mutters, the sound of an engine spitting in the background. “You asshole. And now the fucking boat won’t start. Fuck!” There’s a loud bang, forcing me to pull my mobile from my ear. “The engine just blew up,” Ringo says flatly. “The fucking engine just fucking blew the fuck up.”
I’m off again, laughing, my amusement doing a damn fine job of dousing down the anger burning my gut. “I’ll call the Coast Guard.”
“What’s going on?” Brad asks, eyeing up my amused form.
“Ringo’s had a productive fishing trip,” I howl, pressing my hands into my knees to help me up. “And the engine just blew up.”
Brad snatches the phone from me on a frown that suggests he’s truly worried about me. He should be. I’m feeling a bit unhinged, but if I don’t laugh, I’m likely to go on a killing spree.
Brad tells Ringo that someone is on the way to rescue him while I strip out of my wetsuit. He hangs up and stares at me. “So what the fuck do we do n—” He pivots toward the door when we hear the sound of tires crunching the gravel, followed by a voice.
We look at each other. “Spittle,” Brad and I mutter in unison, heading outside as he hands me my phone. I take the steps down from the cabin, my bare feet crunching into the gravel.
Spittle looks me up and down. “Having a slumber party?” he quips as I shift my bare feet on the cutting stones.
“What the fucking hell just happened?” I ask.
“They got a tipoff,” he mutters, walking past us to the shack. “You got any beers in this place?”
After a quick confused and worried look thrown at each other, Brad and I follow him in, Brad going straight to the beer fridge and pulling out three bottles, twisting off the caps. “A tipoff?” he asks, setting one bottle in front of Spittle and handing me another.
Spittle takes a long, and what looks like a much-needed slurp, and drops it back to the table with a thud, breathing in. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you. I couldn’t fucking stop them. I don’t know what’s going down with you and the Russians. I’ve made it my business not to make it my business, if you know what I mean.” That’s fucking bullshit. Spittle knows exactly what I deal in, the bent fuck. He casts serious eyes to me. “You have a mole.”
My bottle pauses at my lips. “What?”
Reaching into his inside pocket, he pulls something out and tosses it on the table like he’s glad to be rid of it. I move in, looking down at the photographs.
“Motherfucker,” Brad breathes, slamming his bottle on the table.
I’m deathly still. A statue. But my insides are blowing up, all kinds of manic shit happening. My heart feels like it could be making a bid for freedom, ramming down the walls of my chest. An atomic bomb feels like it could have gone off in my veins. My eyes can see more clearly than they’ve seen before.
My arse drops to a chair and my numb hand reaches for the pictures, dragging them toward me until the images are blinding me. Rose is coming down the steps of a jet, a man behind her. I don’t recognize him. “Who’s that?”
“That, my friend, is Nox Dimitri.”
My eyes fly up, and Brad curses under his breath. “Dimitri?” Flashbacks bombard me, my head pounding. I see Pops take out Marius Dimitri. I see me, just a boy, take out his son. I look at Brad, my forehead heavy. “The Dimitris are all dead.”
“All except him.” Spittle taps the picture, and I force myself to look at it. “Nox is Marius’s illegitimate son. He’s moved in and reformed the Romanian mafia, and it seems he has a beef with you. Why’s that, Danny?”
“Jesus,” Brad breathes.
I look up to Spittle. His face harbors a million concerns. “When were these taken?”
“The day before she”—his finger moves across to Rose’s face—“found Adams in a hotel bar and seduced him. The phone you gave me. Hers?”
I close my eyes, trying to breathe.
>
“Tracked,” Spittle finishes.
My fucking heart clenches. I didn’t know it was capable of such . . . hurt? “She’s spying for the Romanians?” My blood just surpassed boiling point, and I slowly rise, my balled fists braced against the table supporting me. My head is in tatters, realization dripping into my brain little piece by little piece. “Nox Dimitri.” I let my thoughts roll out. “He planted Rose on Adams to get intel on me, and then I fucking took her in Vegas.” Nox must have laughed himself out of town. She’s bait. A trap. “Don’t fucking look at me like that,” I warn Brad, feeling his accusing eyes on my profile. “Just don’t fucking look at me like that.” I flex my hands and claw my fingers, dragging in the photos until they’re screwed up balls in my fists. “I’m going to fucking kill her.” I turn and steam out, feeling psychotic, every muscle vibrating with the strain to contain my temper.
Falling into the car, I slam the door and start it up, smashing my foot on the gas and roaring away as Brad makes chase. I lose control of the back end, the Merc swinging from side to side as I speed down the lane. She’s played me. She’s fucking played me. How could I have been so stupid?
The drive home is fast and furious, my anger worsening the closer I get to my mansion. I break every speed limit, cut up a million cars, and punch the steering wheel every few seconds. When I screech up the driveway, I don’t bother turning off the engine, throwing the door open and sprinting up the steps, bursting through the door like a raging bull.
Esther is halfway down the stairs, a laundry basket in her hands. She stops abruptly, assessing me from head to toe. It’s only now that I register I’m only wearing my boxers. “Where is she?” I can hardly speak, my throat burning with the strain of trying to catch a breath.
Esther’s head tilts a little, and for the first time since I met her, I sense concern. If I had the energy, I would laugh in her face. She glances up the stairs.
Jesus, is this what panic feels like? My heart could have fallen out of my chest and splattered on the floor in front of me. My eyes follow Esther’s stare up the stairs, my feet feeling like they’re buried in cement. I can’t move. Don’t want to go up and find her room empty. Yeah, I locked the door, but I know Rose. That won’t hold her back. I don’t want this anger to take on another level, because it might very well burn me alive.
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