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“I figured.” He straightens and pulls back his shoulders, cracking his spine. “I’ll tell Ruben to hurry.”
“Take the Land Rover. You drive.” I don’t trust Ruben to handle the vehicle on the mountain pass.
He regards me with surprise. “What about you?”
“I’ll follow.”
Balling his hands at his sides, he says, “Why?”
I hold his gaze squarely. “I need to take care of business.”
His nostrils flare. “Does said business have anything to do with that woman?”
The icy tone of my voice holds a warning. “Cas. Use her name if you’re going to mention her.”
“You’re out of your mind,” he says. “The area is swarming with cops.”
My patience is for his benefit. I need him to stay calm and handle Ruben until they’re over the border. “I’m not getting caught.”
“Fuck, Ian.”
“Get Ruben to Lesotho and stock up the cabin. Think you can handle that?”
He doesn’t acknowledge my sarcasm. He only stands there staring.
“What?” I drawl, dragging the book closer as his cue to go.
“Was it?” he asks again. “Was it worth it?”
Every precious second of it.
If given a choice, I’d do it all over again.
I’d happily take ten bullets for another night with her.
My face must say it all, because he gives a tight nod before stalking from the room and slamming the backdoor behind him.
Opening the book on the page I marked, I continue reading the chapter about heart conditions.
Chapter 8
Cas
Hyperventilating, I take the phone from the box.
There’s only one explanation. It’s the same one that explains how the money got into my wallet.
I press a hand to my heart. He was in my apartment. Ian. He must’ve broken in while I was at work, but there are no signs of forced entry, which means he picked the lock.
The phone in my palm taunts me. He didn’t have to replace the one he’d destroyed. Why do it? Why give me money? He didn’t feel guilty for what he did. No. There was no remorse on his face when he kissed me and told me he knew where I lived.
Shit.
I drop the phone on the bed. I’m stone-cold sober, the buzz gone. My skin, damp from the bath, contracts with more than just cold. Feeling exposed, I fumble around in my closet for some clothes and pull on a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. I rush to the window that overlooks the street and close the blinds. I do so with every window in the apartment until the interior is basked in a gloomy light.
Grabbing my laptop from the coffee table, I sit cross-legged on the sofa and balance the computer on my lap to do something I should’ve done the minute I’d gotten back from the police station. I look up a local news channel.
Hit on Sun City. Phantom robbers make off with five million in cash.
My blood runs cold. The more I read, the more my veins fill with dread. Three men held a casino manager and security guard at gunpoint, forcing the manager to hand over the winnings of the evening. The manager was preparing to transport the money to the safe. The manager issued a statement, claiming the hotel staff has no idea how the gang managed to smuggle guns and disguises through security. All camera recordings from an hour before the robbery have been remotely deleted. They can’t offer an explanation for that either. Security personnel are being questioned for possible involvement. None of the Sun City staff members have been injured, but the notorious Phantom gang leader was shot. Roadblocks have been put up, and the police are patrolling the area.
I swallow away the alcohol-induced dryness of my mouth.
The gang of three men has been nicknamed the Phantom robbers by the police due to their disguises that consist of Phantom branded athletic masks and suits. Police have been after them for over fifteen years for a variety of crimes involving heists of money and valuables. To date, there has been no clues as to the men’s identities. The article speculates that the gang leader must be losing his touch, seeing he slipped up for the first time last night by getting himself shot. A reward of ten grand is offered for information that would lead to the gang members’ arrest.
The screen blurs in my vision. The robbery took place at the cashier office next to the poker tables not five minutes after Mint and I had left. The fast food court is only a few paces from the poker room entrance. The gang was there, a short distance away from where we were having dinner.
Shuddering at the thought, I type the name of the gang into the search field of my browser. The list of articles that pop up is long. Every heading I click is linked to a news station, newspaper, or online media site, reporting on one of the gang’s multiple crimes.
