Diego tipped his head, studying him with the patience of a predator. “Come on, man. Don’t make me look for someone else.”
The urge to vomit was back. “What does that mean?”
“It means...” the jerk said in a calm tone—calmer than it should’ve been, “…everybody’s got a price. Or a weak spot.”
Weak spot.
The words struck like a slap. Andy tried to keep his expression blank, but panic clawed at his insides, jagged and fast. He didn’t miss the way Diego’s grin widened, like he’d seen it—the flinch Andy didn’t mean to give away.
“Relax,” Diego said, stepping back with a smirk. “Think on it.”
“I don’t need to think,” he said louder. “I said no.”
Courage wasn’t the right word for what shot through him—it felt more like panic wearing a brave face.
Diego shrugged like it didn’t matter. Like none of it mattered. “Suit yourself.”
When Diego strode toward the driver’s door, Andy thought the nightmare was over. But Toad and Jax didn’t move. And instead of getting in, Diego reached through the open window, grabbed a bottle of cola, and twisted it open like they were just hanging out after school—not talking about federal crimes.
He guzzled half of the soda as he slowly returned and got in Andy’s face again.
“You know,” Diego said conversationally, “I always respect someone who tries to do the right thing. I do. Really. But man...” He blew out a breath, shaking his head. “Life gets messy.”
Andy couldn’t even find words.
Diego watched him a second longer, then grinned. “Anyway. I’ll let you think about it a little longer, and then I’ll text you.” He paused. “Try not to disappoint me.”
The trio sneered at Andy as they climbed into the Charger, revved the engine once—loud, deliberate—then peeled out, gravel exploding under the tires.
He stood frozen in the dust and exhaust, his heart pounding so hard it made his ribs ache.
It took at least a full minute before his legs remembered how to move.
He staggered backward until his back met a tree, then he sat hard. The envelope was burning a hole in his pocket as the guilt hit as fast as the fear.
He shouldn’t have done the first job.
He shouldn’t have come for the money.
He shouldn’t have given Diego anything to latch on to.
Everybody’s got a price. Or a weak spot.
The common cliche wasn’t what bothered him—it was the second part tacked on that had him tense. What the hell had Diego meant by it?
With shaking fingers, he pulled out his phone from his pocket and deleted the number Diego had called him from.
Blocked it.
Deleted the text thread. Again.
None of it made him feel better.
A breeze kicked across the parking lot. He finally stood and grabbed the bicycle’s handles. He was too unsteady to get on, so he walked beside it instead. Each step was weighted, like his sneakers were made of cement.
His brain spun in frantic, looping circles—panic and denial and what-ifs crashing into each other like waves.
He wasn’t doing anything else for Diego.
