Page 45

Do I need a face-to-face to put this shit to bed?

I decide I do not.

But I pull in anyway. Because this meetin' isn't about me, it's about him. It's not about what I need, and what he needs was never part of my job description.

He's nothin' in this world. Nothin' but a government-sanctioned human trafficker dressed up like a badass.

He's not the master of no one, not even himself. He's a little piss-ant soldier. About as captured as they come.

And as far as his boss goes, whoever is runnin' Mike has figured out what Cash is doin'. The puzzle pieces were set up to slip into place so it's playin' out right now, right this second, in real fuckin' time.

But I'd only be lyin' to myself if I said I didn't wanna see his face when this shit lands.

I earned that, so I'm here to collect.

The inside of the gas station isn't lit up, per se. But there are so many laptops on that desk, it might as well be.

So he is watchin'.

I know nothin' about the stock market. So what those screens are sayin', I can't even fathom. But they're sayin' somethin' all right. Because as soon as he realizes it's me, the glass door swings open and he comes stormin' out.

The expression on his face says he's still not sure he's totally fucked. Which is a nice perk for me. Because if he had figured it all out, I'd miss out on the big moment.

I swing the truck up so the driver's side allows us to talk, but at this point, I'm not even gonna bother gettin' out.

He could drag me out, if he wanted. I guess.

But I'll take my chances.

He's talkin', mouth movin'. Swearin', probably, before I even come to a stop. I don't catch any of it because the crank-down window on this truck is sticky, and squeaky, and takes a good long moment to unwind.

Which is ironically funny in my favor, I think.

"Do you have any fuckin' idea how long I've been trying to get a hold of you?"

Oh yeah, he's growlin' angry, all right.

"Sorry," I say. "I was outta town all weekend and just got done with my local business. But I got a few minutes, so I'm all yours now, Mike. What's on your mind?"

"What's on my mind?"

Yep. He definitely wants to kill me right now.

His expression changes. Shifts. Like weather movin' in off the plains when the sky can't decide if it wants to kill you or just scare you first. His eyes narrow down, tight, and there's somethin' behind them that goes real mean. The quiet kind. The kind where a man's brain is runnin' calculations but he doesn't have enough information to finish.

Yeah.

He knows.

He knows somethin' is wrong, anyway. Somethin' shaped like a trap. But he can't see it yet. Can't name it. Can't point at the thing and say there, that's where you fucked me.

Because the trap is, in fact, already clamped around his ankle. Teeth sunk in. Steel bitin' bone.

But the pain hasn't set in yet. That's how traps work, ya know. The snap comes first and the body don't believe it. The nerves go quiet for just a second, just a breath, because the brain is still catchin' up to what the metal already knows.

This right here—this moment on his face, this twitch behind his eyes—this is pure shock. The body registerin' damage it's not quite ready to feel.

And I'm just sittin' here. Window down. Engine runnin'. Watchin' it land.