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I storm out of the warehouse, growling under my breath and feeling strangely sick to my stomach. It’s not a sensation I’m used to. Not one I’ve experienced before, so I don’t really know how to fucking deal with it. The first thing that comes to mind is alcohol, but that sounds like a bad plan. I enjoy a glass of whiskey every once in a while, but the fact I feel like I need one right now makes me veer off it. It would end badly. Probably with a trip to the hospital.
Despite how extraordinarily fucked up I am right now, I’m still never off my game. I’m barely out of the door when I find a solution to my problems. A man, lurking in the shadows outside the warehouse, steps out in front of me and it’s like a gift from up on high; my reactions are pretty much what you might expect from a guy like me, times a thousand. I’m pissed. It’s more than that, though. I’m freaking the fuck out, which makes me want to pile drive my fist into things. In this case, a stranger’s face.
I realize mid-way through my first swing that this guy isn’t a stranger, though. It’s Andreas Medina. And there’s a narrow, vicious-looking blade in his hand, which is coming right for me.
Not. Fucking. Happening. I’ve been stabbed enough to last a lifetime. I don’t ever intend on letting another person sink steel into my body again. I let out a roar as I grab hold of Andreas’ wrist. There’s a look of surprise on the motherfucker’s face—he must have thought he was going to get the jump on me—and then a flash of pain in his eyes as he drops hold of his weapon. I barely have to apply any pressure; the reason for this is simple. I already broke Andreas’ arm back at the compound nearly three weeks ago, and despite the fact he’s not wearing a sling, his arm can’t be anywhere near healed. I pull back my left hand and I smash it into the side of his head, sending him sprawling sideways into a pile of crushed cardboard boxes.
“Fuck!” he hisses. He’s all arms and legs for a moment as he makes a pretty abysmal attempt at getting up. He’s not getting up, though; I’m not going to allow it. I place the sole of my boot on Andreas’ back and I flatten the guy. Nose crushed into the concrete.
“Yeah. Fuck is right, asshole. You just made a very big mistake.”
“You’re making the mistake, ese. I’m going to fucking kill you!”
The turmoil I found myself in a few moments ago has vanished now; it’s like a Christmas fucking miracle. Poof—just gone. I’m used to this. The flat, cold nothing that takes hold of me, stripping away my emotion. I’m so grateful I could almost shake the man’s hand. “Really? ’Cause the way I see it, you’re scrambling in the dirt, pinned under one of my size elevens, motherfucker, and I’m in the mood to crush some cockroaches.”
Andreas laughs a shaky laugh, still trying and failing to push himself up. “You’re not gonna kill me,” he says. “Not when you hear what I have to say.”
I hate when they do this. Hate it. Because now, according to the sensible part of my brain, I need to find out what the hell is so important he thinks it’s going to save his life. The rest of me wants to pick the bastard up, toss his ass in a dumpster, chain it shut, and push the damn thing into the Puget Sound.
Fuck it. The sensible side of my brain is unreliable anyway; so far it’s led me directly into the clusterfuck I have going on back in the warehouse; how much worse can things get if I ignore it?
I pull out the Desert Eagle from the back of my waistband and plant the muzzle against the base of Andreas’ neck. “Sorry. No dice, my friend.” I flick the safety. “You can save your bullshit. I’m done listening. To anyone. Period.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Wait! Julio’s in town and he’s got your friend. He’s gonna kill him, man.”
A volt of energy slams through me. Shit. This is what I’m talking about. How the hell am I supposed to kill him now? I exhale, clenching my jaw. “You’re lying. I just spoke to my friend.”
Andreas is shaking his head, a wide smile of relief marking his face now he knows he has my attention. “Not the black guy. Your other friend. The one who blew up half of Julio’s villa once you and that puta burned off.”
“Cade? The Widow Maker?” When was the last time I spoke to him? I’ve been so distracted the past few days worrying about Sloane and finding Charlie, I haven’t seen anyone. Both Cade and Carnie have been staying with Michael, though. Michael would have said something straight away if one of them were gone. I lean closer to Andreas, crouching low over him, pressing the gun a little harder into his neck. “Still lying,” I growl.
Andreas’ laugh is high-pitched and seriously fucking irritating. “Okay, ese. I’m lying. But what if I’m not? What if your friend dies because I don’t get back to Julio before dark, huh?”
Man, this motherfucker really is ruining a perfectly good beat down. I need to call Michael. I need to hear from him whether everyone is present and accounted for at the other apartment. In the meantime, just in case…. “I don’t suppose you feel like telling me where he is?”
Medina’s eyeball swivels in his head, looking up at me. There’s madness and a decent helping of hatred there, staring right back at me. “No fucking way, pendejo. I tell you, you kill me. That’s how it goes. And besides, I wouldn’t tell you shit anyway.” He spits, his saliva barely missing my jeans. Dirty bastard. I lift the gun and tap it on the back of his head. For all his big words, Andreas’ eyes widen in fear. “Whoa. Whoa, what are you gonna do?”
