He came back into the room, hooked his hand around the back of my neck, and pressed a firm kiss to my forehead. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I whispered as he pulled back.
He blinked, rolled his shoulders, and practically transformed into a different man. “Get dressed. Meet us on the roof in two minutes.”
“The roof?”
“We’re taking the chopper,” he called over his shoulder.
When I was ready, I found Margo and Carrie in the hall. Margo’s eyes were cold, her lips pinched in worry. “Don’t you do anything stupid.”
I shook my head. “I won’t.”
“I’m serious, Blue.”
“Blue?” Carrie and I repeated.
Margo smirked. “You always wear blue.”
Carrie started to cry. “Oh my gosh, you finally have a nickname!”
I smiled. “When all this is over, I would like to join your, uh, goodness, what the hell is it? You’re Wednesday thing?”
“Wine Wednesdays,” they replied.
I nodded. “Yes. That.”
“Angel!”
We all turned to find Jake at the end of the hall. “Chopper’s started! You coming or what?”
“Wait,” Carrie shouted, running into the weapon’s room. She came back out with a mask, this one black with blue engravings, waves all around the eyes. “This is Ash’s,” she said, holding it out to me. “Wear it for him.”
“And for you,” Margo added.
They pulled me in for a hug. “Go kick some ass, Angel.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ash
“He’s going to get out of that chair.”
Tucker hummed, popping a grape into his mouth. “I’m counting on it, actually.”
The masked man standing beside Tucker’s chair at the table just a few feet from me shifted on his feet, doing his best to not meet my eyes. I recognized his voice. He was an Astoria local. I just couldn’t place where I’d heard him. Still, in about an hour, when I was free and his blood covered my hands, I would know. There was no need to waste my energy worrying about it now.
The roof of this shitty place was leaking, a steady stream of rust-colored drops falling onto my shoulder. I looked up, taking my time as I scanned the place.
“See? He’s already looking for a way out,” Tucker boasted.
I rubbed my wrists together, feeling the poorly tied rope loosening by the second. The bastard wanted me to run so he could hunt. It was a power-play for him.
“Who put out the order?” I asked, watching Tucker’s sidekick.
The stocky man stiffened and turned to Tucker. “Do we answer him?”
“You know, for a hit man, you suck at interrogations,” Tucker drawled, sounding bored.
