Page 9 of Lord of Justice

"Looks good." I turn off my flashlight. "Help me put the boxes in my trunk please."

"Well, there’s something we have to handle first.”

Turning, the box already nestled in my arms like a baby, I give him a stern glare that should freeze his feet to the ground. "And what problem would that be?" I say acidly. This punch-drunk fuck is not about to start bargaining with me, is he?

"Well, I need payment." He scratches his stubbled cheek. Oh delightful, this idiot thinks I'm going to bargain.

"I know you've already been paid." My tone is flat and less than impressed. "I saw the transaction details. You have your money. I'm just here to pick up the goods. Trust me, you donotwant to piss off Jackson." The certainty in my voice makes him quail for a moment. Then he looks around, seemingly remembering that it's 2 AM in a shit part of Long Island and there's no one around.

"I'm telling you.” He steps closer, "I need the full amount. What he gave me was just a down payment." I laugh, not bothering to lower my voice, and push a button on my cellphone. Time to abort this mission. It transmits a distress signal back to Roman and to my bodyguard, Vitali.

The one I ditched tonight.

So, no matter how this plays out, it's going to suck.

"We're not playing this game. I will just drive off and you can deal with Jackson when he finds outyoufucked up his transfer." I don't bother to lower my voice, since I might be about to die. Having the neighbors wake up and hear me might be helpful in case he decides to draw that switchblade and start carving off pieces of mebefore my security gets here.

He puts his hands behind his head and paces in a circle. His shirt rides up to show a series of terrible red tattoos. They bring it back. That night. That monster of a man, sprayed with blood like he’d showered in it.

I shake my head. Don’t think about it. It’ll go away. Eventually.

His gaze switches to my shiny, expensive SUV and back to me. "You can afford it. Don't you have one of those black cards?"

"Can you take an American Express Centurion?" I ask. "Show me your card reader." His bushy brows are starting to draw together and I click my fob, raising the tailgate on the Range Rover up again. "Fine."

Rule One: if the deal is going sideways, drop the goods andrun.

I drop the box, watching it land on the ground. One side of the box splits and two of the watches come rolling out, their pristine cases getting scratched from the crumbling cement.

"What the fuck!" he shouts. "Don't fuck with the packaging!"

Rule Two: If you can't run, assert dominance. "Then don't fuck withme,"I say sharply, wondering whoisthis stone-cold bitch? Because I shouldbe crying and wetting myself right now.

Apparently, I'm not that much of a badass because he slams his forearm across my throat before I can duck. My back hits the door of the Range Rover as all the air whooshes out of my chest. Red-hot pain explodes in my neck, it feels like he crushed my trachea. I'm wheezing, trying to get my breath back.

"The payment just doubled," he rasps. "Now, I'm gonna put you in this fucking car. I'm gonna sit next to you and I'm holdingthis,to keep you in line." He pulls out a Beretta, not aiming it at me, exactly, just kind of waving it around and that might be scarier. I've learned enough about guns in the last two years to know all that flailing means the gun could go off at any second.

"You don't think it is at all suspicious," I say, still coughing, and my eyes watering, "that I'm a nice girl driving an expensive car and this greasy prick sitting next to me really is going to be like, what? My date? My bestie? You don't think this is going to draw some suspicion?"

This dude is no Einstein. He's getting confused, he doesn't like that the drugs aren't letting him format any kind of logical conclusion to this so he decides on anger instead, slamming his fist into the window next to my head, a small corner of the glass cracks into a spiderweb of broken glass, but it holds.

Of course it holds, Roman had our cars bulletproofed. He really is the best brother-in-law in the world. I should thank him for that. If I live through this.

"You think this is the time for you to start telling me what to do, bitch?"

I try to stifle my coughs, watching his pupils expand and then shrink again as the Battle Royale for the final two drugs is taking over.

"You're gonna do what I tell you or I'm carving my initials in your forehead and I'm selling you to one of the fuck houses down by the docks and no one's ever gonna see you again."

That won't happen. Roman will get here first, or Vitali. They will hammer this bastard into the ground. But I don’t feel like a stone-cold bitch anymore. Tears are streaming down my face and I’m pretending they’re from the burning misery of my throat and not because I’m scared shitless. He's high enough that maybe I could drive my knee up between his legs and then smash his head against the shattered window…

Iris, you idiot. He's got a gun.

Money, maybe? I could try to hold him off with lies of big money until Roman's men rescue me.

As it turns out, none of those options are available because a spotlight clicks on, illuminatingthe grimy backyard like its high noon. Me, standing next to a box of stolen merchandise, and this drug-addled psycho holding a gun to my head.

"Don't move! You're under arrest!"