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“What’s the chances of each?” I ask, and Shane shrugs.
“About fifty-fifty. But whether the hitman is using his own network to find us or one of the bosses, the result is the same. We’re the loose end he’s hunting. But if one of the families is helping him, we’d know who the risk is and who the safety might be. Then we could decide if we should try to outrun this, lay low, or maybe even go back. Hopefully, Chucky will have some intel.”
Chapter 18
Shane
I pull over at a large truck stop, parking in the middle of the lot mixed in with the other cars, knowing they’ll disguise the truck a bit since there’s a chance it’s been reported stolen by now. Best guess, the truck was put out there by one of the workers at the strip mall, and if so, they’ll notice as soon as they get off shift.
Maggie digs in my duffel, handing me the burner phone. I remind myself to buy a new SIM card for it, but one or two more calls shouldn’t be a problem. I turn it on, and before I can even speed-dial Chucky, it rings, and I recognize his number on the display.
Shit, that’s not good. I answer, putting it on speaker and staying silent as we always do as he jumps in. “Shane? You okay?”
“Yeah, Chucky. Fine and fucking dandy, except for the hitman who took us by surprise at the fucking motel,” I reply, holding a finger up for Maggie to stay silent. “What the fuck’s going on?”
Chucky hisses through the phone, sounding upset. “Yeah, I’ve been watching for you to turn the damn phone back on so I could warn you. Got word earlier today that he’s looking for your girl because she saw his face. Loose ends, you know. He wants to disappear.”
I reach across and take Maggie’s hand, her face remarkably stoic for having confirmation that she’s on a hitman’s shit list. “Well, he found us already. Got a few shots off, hit me too. Took a nick to the left bicep, but nothing serious. Meghan’s fine.”
Chucky’s voice drops to a whisper, and I can hear him lean into his mic, the wheeze unmistakable. “We need to talk about her, Shane. Your girl is in some deep shit, not just with the hit.”
Maggie pales slightly, squeezing my hand, and Chucky continues. “You had me check out all the employees at Petals, and I did. I checked out Meghan Postland and she was clean. But when the shit hit the fan, I ran a wider search, and found a Maggie Postland . . .”
Maggie suddenly yanks her hand back, her knees pulling to her chest in a position I know all too well and was happy to see go.
She’s mouthing, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” silently, and I can see the fear in her eyes. This isn’t good.
My voice is hard as I answer Chucky. “What about Maggie Postland?”
I hear a few clicks, like he’s typing on his end, and then he reads. “Maggie Postland, 289 Westminster Drive, Apartment 175.”
I nod my head, knowing that’s where I’d taken Maggie the night I drove her home. This is nothing new. “Yeah, and . . .?”
“She works for The Daily Spot, Shane. That online tabloid rag that reports on celebrities and shit.”
Still hoping I’m wrong about where this is going, even as Maggie’s head falls and she hugs her knees, I sigh. “You sure? I’m not saying it might not be Meghan, but maybe she answers their phones or something? She told me she’d done some office work before.”
Chucky makes a tsking noise, and I can imagine him leaning back and giving me a sarcastic look. “I’m looking at her articles, Shane. She’s a reporter. She was the one who sprang that expose on the basketball player. And if I know, they might know—all of them. Dominick, Sal, the hitman.”
I nod, and I know I need to have a private conversation. “I gotta go, Chucky. Give me a minute and I’ll call back in. Stand by.”
I click the End button before staring across at Maggie. A reporter. A fucking reporter? My voice is icy, the anger turning my heart cold. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even move, just sits there, small and curled around herself. She’s so scared, so afraid . . . and right now, she should be. Not from me, but from what her presence and digital footprint brings down on us.
“Maggie!”
My voice rings out sharply in the truck, and she flinches but raises her head. Her eyes are red-rimmed, tears tracking down her face. “Yes! I wanted to tell you, but then everything went all to crap and I didn’t know how to!”
“Well, do it now. Tell me what the fuck is going on with you,” I demand, my voice hard. “If there’s even a snowball’s chance in hell of keeping you safe, you need to tell me everything. Omit fucking nothing.”
