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DANNY
* * *
We pull off the freeway, and I check behind us, just as Phil Collins hits the speakers with In the Air Tonight. I cough over my smoke, casting an ironic look James’s way. He shakes his head mildly, looking up at me in the rearview mirror briefly before returning his attention to the road, raising his own smoke to his lips and pulling. He’s given in to the lure of a relaxing cigarette again. I can’t blame him.
Brad remains silent in the passenger seat, his focus set on the world passing, the air from the open window breezing in, mixing the track with wind. I look at the weaponry surrounding me. On the seat, in the trunk, on the floor, on my lap. We’re loaded. Literally. The whole fucking bunker is split between the cars as we drive back from the boatyard in a convoy of four. I’m certain not one of us without some kind of stressed sweat going on. Brad’s not murmured a word. James is pensive. Goldie and Ringo were without their usual irritating banter as we loaded the cars, and Otto obviously hadn’t found anything that could help us because he was persistently silent too. Even Leon read the room and remained mute as he and Jerry helped. Bernard King, or someone associated with him, had been at the boatyard. Too close for comfort. So close, they got one of our own.
We all need a drink. We all need a moment. A fucking plan. My God, Pops will be turning in his fucking grave. If he had one.
James pulls onto the road that leads up to the mansion, checking his mirrors to make sure Ringo, Otto, and Leon are all still behind. I look back and see them. “We unload then meet in the office,” I say as James slows toward the gates of the house.
“I’m talking to Pearl first,” Brad murmurs, his tone flat, without emotion, but his entire persona radiating threat. I won’t be challenging him. I’ve been in his shoes. Worst shoes I’ve ever stood in.
“Of course,” I reply. “I’m here if?—”
“Fuck!” James slams the brakes on, and I’m suddenly flying forward, my arms shooting up to save me from being thrown into the front. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I catch sight of a Mercedes crashing through the gates before James yanks the steering wheel to the left to avoid hitting it, sending us skidding sideways up the street.
I’m tossed around on the back seat, my fucking legs in the air, guns flying, and fight to right my sprawled body. What the fuck is going on? “Shit,” I yell, as my head meets the window and the Range Rover comes to a jarring stop.
“What the hell?” Brad murmurs, unclipping his belt and getting out of the car. I follow urgently, as does James, all of us walking around to the other side of the Range Rover. The hood of the Mercedes is buried in a bush on the opposite side of the road, the engine still running.
“That’s Tank’s car.” James starts walking toward it, pulling his gun, leaning forward to try and see in the driver’s seat.
“Be careful,” I say, drawing my gun. “It’s—” My attention is caught by my wife walking calmly through the destroyed gates. What the fuck?
“What’s going on, Danny?” Brad asks, uneasy, pulling his gun too, as Rose picks up her pace toward the Mercedes.
“Rose,” I yell, a sliver of fear running through my veins. She doesn’t hear me. But as I gage the look on her face, I realize Rose won’t be hearing anything right now. She’s got that vacant, determined, haunted expression I’m too familiar with. And my trepidation multiplies.
“Rose!” I bellow, jogging toward her.
“Danny, what the fuck’s going on?” Ringo yells, coming after me.
“I don’t fucking know!” Rose is running now, set to make it to the car before any of us. “Rose!” I overtake Brad as she reaches the driver’s door and yanks it open.
“Get out!” she screams.
I jump at the volume and hatred loaded into her voice as she starts wrestling with whoever’s in the driver’s seat. “Get the fuck out now!”
I slow to a stop when Anya falls out of the car, her body landing on the road with a thwack. Rose kicks her in the stomach.
“What the fuck?” Brad breathes, coming to a stop next to me.
“Jesus.” James flanks my other side, and I hear the shocked gasps of the others from behind as we all stand like useless cunts while my wife beats the shit out of Anya, repeatedly kicking her, punching her, screaming. Absolutely unhinged. I know she’s got this in her, but . . .
Fuck . . . me.
I come to my senses when Rose rams a gun under Anya’s chin. “Jesus, Rose,” I gasp, running over, but I skid to a stop, arms up, when she aims it my way, her eyes wild. Warning me.
I back up. “Okay,” I say, appearing calm but really not feeling it. “Rose, baby, what’s happening?”
“Tell him!” she screams. “Tell him your name!”
Anya does something that shocks me more than Rose aiming a gun my way. She spits in Rose’s face. “The fuck?” I blurt, my voice high. And what the fuck is Anya’s name?
I don’t know, but I need to defuse this fucking pronto before the police show up and find our whole fucking arsenal in the cars. “Rose, baby, can we take this inside?” I take one step gingerly toward her and stop when I hear Brad curse.
