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I stare forward, thinking. That’s a lot of enemies to make.
“But, again,” Danny continues. “What does it matter to King if Pearl’s not a virgin anymore? He’s bagging a cool two hundred million.”
I don’t know why it would matter to King, but something tells me it would. And to Danny’s point, why didn’t King just take money from Sandy for the guns if that’s all he’s interested in? Because it wouldn’t have been two hundred million? I sink into my chair, uneasy. “There’s not a chance in hell I’m taking Pearl to the exchange,” I say quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear me. Like Sandy, I don’t trust that fucker King. “Has Sandy tried to contact Anya?”
“Yeah, he’s tried.” Otto replies. “Texts and calls.”
“Should we reply?” Danny asks.
“No,” I say resolutely. “Anya was spooked, hence she ran. She could have called Sandy to say she’s leaving. She might not have had time. As far as Sandy’s aware, she could have simply bailed. I don’t want him to know that we’ve exposed her.”
“Fucking hell, I need to eat,” Danny moans, holding his aching head as he leaves the office, James not far behind, going to get their stew. And to appease the FBI agent who’s dropped by.
But Otto remains on the couch. He looks at me, jerking his head, prompting me to go over. “Can you see what I can see?” he asks, as I study the footage of Nolan with him.
“I see it.”
“And this,” he says, switching the screen.
Fuck, yeah, I see it. “Thanks. Get Leon to clean the mess up.” I get my phone out and make a call. He answers fast, as I knew he would. “Are you on your way?” I ask, following the others.
“Just looking for my American passport.”
I smile. “I’m having a welcome party for you.”
“Shall I bring a bottle?”
“Bring a crate.”
61
PEARL
* * *
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I release it, tentatively letting go of the chair and taking cautious steps toward the edge of the terrace with no support, no one to hold me up. I feel like someone is constantly stabbing at my lung with a fork, the pain cutting. I watch as the glass gets closer and at the same time seems to get farther away, each step more painful than the last. “Come on,” I say through gritted teeth, pushing the pain back because, really, it’s nothing compared to what I’ve endured in the past. Nothing at all. I bite down harder on my back teeth, holding my side, my face screwing up. It’s not nothing. It’s everything. My pain now feels more acute, more real. Now, I have every reason to fight for relief. To not curl up into a ball and give up. To numb myself. Hide. I have something to live for again. I can’t be weak. “I can do it.” I stretch my hand out, trying to reach the rail.
Nearly there.
Just a few more steps.
“The fuck?”
I jump, hiss with pain, and fall forward, missing the rail. Brad catches me, just before I face-plant the glass. “Ow,” I whisper, clenching his forearms as he eases me upright.
“I’ll give you fucking ow,” he mutters grumpily, slipping his arm under my knees and scooping me up. It hurts to get my arm around his neck, too, and my newly cast arm feels like lead where it rests on my chest. But my view?
I study his profile as he carries me back to the bed, marveling at his beauty. Even now, when he’s stressed and scowling. So beautiful. He lowers me gently. “What the fucking hell are you doing?” he snaps.
“Doc said I should move around,” I argue. “And my arse was getting sore from being on it for too long.”
“I’ll give you a sore ass too.”
“You sure are in a giving mood this evening.”
His warning look makes me smile. “Are you hungry?”
“Rose brought me some stew.” I point to the bowl on the bedside, and Brad looks.
