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Rebel's a smart guy; he knows what I'm talking about straight away. “Right. And is this package going to be screaming and punching me in the back of the head across numerous state lines?”
My turn to laugh now. “Will that be a problem?”
“Not at all. Can't say I'm not used to it. As soon as I've spoken to Medina and dealt with Julio, I'll be there.”
My breath freezes in my lungs. “Medina?”
“Yeah, Medina. He's my man inside. You've met the guy, right? Arrogant motherfucker. Owed me a debt. He'll let me know what Julio has planned before I even step foot into that meeting.”
Oh. Holy. Shit.
Well, this is just fucking perfect. Seriously, absolutely, typically motherfucking perfect. What were the chances? What were the chances it would have to be Medina? I grind my teeth together, cursing my luck. “Actually, we may have problem after all. Andreas Medina is currently tied up in my basement.”
The line goes quiet. And then, “Why is he currently tied up in your basement?”
“The fucker tried to kill me. Good enough for you?”
More silence. Michael gives me a raised eyebrow—what's going on? I wait for Rebel to think on this for a moment, and then I say, “Maybe you’d better come to my apartment first instead.”
There's a quiet, controlled way that Rebel speaks; it's the same way I speak when I'm trying my hardest not to lose my shit. “Seems as though you’re right. I'll be there shortly.”
I hit end call before he can say anything else. Michael spins the car around without me even asking; he probably heard most of that. “How the hell are all these people so interlinked?” he says on an exhale. I'd love to be able to give him an answer. I'd love to know why every one of these fuckers is so far up in each other's business, but I honestly have no clue. It’s as though Lady Fate is in a serious mood to fuck with me.
“Let's just get back there, Michael. Quickly.”
Michael hits the gas pedal—he seriously should have had a career in NASCAR—and we're speeding through the night, back toward the apartment. The corner of his mouth is twitching, and I know he's dying to say something. The fact he's holding it in tells me that it's probably something I won't want to hear.
“Spit it out, man. Things are about to get crazy here. If you have something to say, then say it.”
“Okay, fine. Have you spoken to Sloane about sending her to New Mexico? She is not going to like that idea.”
I give him The Look. “What do you think?”
“Yeah. Well, if my cousin’s on his way here and you intend on sending her away with him, I would think a heads up would be in order. Don't just spring it on her, boss. It’ll end very badly.” Again with the taking liberties. No one else in the world would dare give me advice on anything, let alone how to handle a girl. A woman. My woman. Michael gets away with it most days, but he’s walking a fine fucking line.
“I got it handled. You don't need to worry yourself over how Sloane's going to react to anything. If she's got any sense whatsoever, then she'll go without causing a fuss.”
Michael pulls a cautious face. “No offense, Zee, but I think her feelings for you might outweigh any sense she may or may not have.”
We are bordering on dangerous territory here. Michael and I never discuss anything so trivial as feelings. If we did, I might be inclined to tell him how fucked my head is right now. I'm trying to concentrate, trying to figure out how the shit with Julio, Cade and Rebel is gonna work out, how the hell I'm going to get Sloane to agree to leave Seattle without me, but I can't. All I'm thinking about is what Julio said. My brain is working overtime, so many cogs turning at once, and yet those words just keep on pushing their way to the forefront of my mind.
You can never turn your back on blood.
You can never turn your back on blood.
You can never turn your back on blood.
I know it’s not possible, but there’s this swelling knot of dread sitting like a lead weight in the pit of my stomach. Is there—is there any way it could be true? Fuck. I can’t. I just can’t do this right now. Michael’s right—I need to speak to Sloane, and soon. Sounds like Rebel will be right with us, and she really will lose her head if I don’t give her some notice.
I haven’t stored any numbers in my current burner, though. There’s a real risk I could lose it or it could fall into the wrong hands, and I don’t want to give Charlie or the DEA direct access to anyone I care about. “Give me your phone,” I growl at Michael. “I need Sloane’s number.”
He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit and slides it out, handing it over to me and doing a pretty damn good job of not looking smug. I know the bastard, though. He’s definitely fucking smug. I looked down at the phone and—
What the fuck?
3 missed calls
The Doc
I turn the phone on its side and sure enough the fucking button is flicked across, showing an orange indicator. It’s on silent. Michael sees what I’m doing and swears under his breath. “What? What is it?”
I’m already calling her back, pressing the phone to my ear, my heart jack hammering away in my chest. “Your phone was on fucking silent, man. Sloane’s been trying to reach us.” He swears again, and I swear—she’s not picking up the phone. I hang up and try again, clenching and unclenching my hand into a fist.
