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“I don’t suggest it, Bookie.” Garcia’s thick accent rolls through the air on a stifled laugh. “The cartel would not be happy.”
Two of his men move out of the car and fall in line behind him like loyal soldiers at attention. I drop the weapon on a hard breath, the tension in my muscles going lax. “What the fuck are you doing here, Garcia?”
“I came for Mussa. The drop-off location is compromised.”
“Compromised?”
“Feds don’t like me. They try to find me, but like a needle in haystack, they won’t.”
The fucking feds are crawling up his ass, and I’m depending on him to get me out of this country without any trace. That’s not a good feeling. “Garcia, I swear to God, if you get me involved in any of your Fed shit.”
“They have nothing on me.” He lifts a brow. “But I have everything on you.”
I hate this son of a bitch so much. I hate that he’s all I have left to help get me out of this shitshow.
“So, the head, and I have good news for you.”
Glaring at him, I shove the gun back in the waist of my jeans, go inside, and grab the head. When I come back out, I toss it at his feet. A sinister grin spreads over his lips as he stares down at it. “Ah, Mussa, Mussa, Mussa, you’ve looked better, mi amigo.” He snaps his fingers, and one of the men grabs the garbage bag while the other passes an envelope to Garcia. “I found Tom Campbell. It is in my best interest to kill the piece of shit myself. Protect my asset.”
“Fuck no. I kill him.” Would it be easier to let Garcia do whatever gruesome cartel shit he wants to Tom? Yes, but the problem with that is, I want to know he’s dead. I want to have the peace of mind of doing it myself and no longer feeling the need to look over my shoulder. I need to be the one who does it to make sure my family is safe.
“I send my man, Rio, with you then.” Garcia shrugs then passes the envelope to me. “See you later, Bookie.”
He and his men head back to the car and pile in. I wait for the rumble of the engine to disappear before I open the envelope. Inside is a deed to a house in the Caribbean, contact information for Garcia’s pilot, an itinerary for Tom’s flight into a nearby airport two days from now, and a handwritten note.
Stan Tortuga. 1129 Zellmark Avenue. Loyal to Tom. More loyal to his daughter Sophia. You want Tom, Bookie? You’ll need to be with Stan when he picks him up from the airport. Men like us always check that it’s our driver in the front…
Fuck.
32
Victoria
Marney shuffles around the kitchen in his crab apron. The smell of something burning fills the room, but he assures me he’s got it under control. For the past two hours, I’ve kept glancing at the windows, waiting for Jude’s headlights to shine through the curtains. “Where did he go, Marney?”
He grabs a jar of spices and dumps half the contents in. “You like your chili spicy?”
“Marney…”
“He went to take care of business.”
Take care of business. That’s what Jude said when he left over three hours ago, but there was something in his demeanor that was off. Almost guilty…
Marney’s phone buzzes on the counter. He cusses before wiping his hand on the apron and pulling the device to his ear. “Yep.” He stirs the boiling pot, then drops the spoon. “The hell, boy? Fine. Fine. Fucking fine.” Jude’s obviously pissed the old man off. He chucks his phone onto the counter, mumbling that his chili is going to burn. “All right, little darlin’. You just stay right there and make sure nothing goes up in a blaze,” he says before he disappears outside.
I watch the door with narrowed eyes as I remove his burning chili from the eye.
Muffled conversation comes from the back porch before the screen door swings open. The scowl on Jude’s face when he steps in makes it look like he’s ready to kill someone. I shouldn’t find it hot, but I do. That angry look coupled with the way his tight black shirt showcases all his muscles and the—fresh claw marks on his arms?
My mind races through how weird he acted earlier this evening—the cologne he spritzed himself down with… “What is that?” I point at the scratches, somehow managing to keep my temper in check.
“Don’t start with me, woman.” Jude goes to the fridge and grabs one of Marney’s beers. “I need you to go upstairs.”
“Are you serious?” I pick up the meat-covered spatula from the side and throw it at him, but he swats it away. “You have scratches on your fucking arms, Jude.” I can feel the pulse in my eye. I’m so raging. I imagine some woman pressing up against him, raking her nails down his arms... The next item to get thrown his way is a knife.
