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“Is that a SIM card?” Gabe asked, stunned.
“No way,” Burke said, vibrating with excitement.
She grinned, triumphant. “Yes way, boss.” Bagging it, she handed it to Burke. “Give it to Antoine?”
Burke grinned back. “You bet. You guys get out of here. Antoine and I can finish checking the truck and then I’ll call the sheriff. Call me when you get to Gabe’s place, so I know you’re safe.”
“Will do.”
The Garden District, New Orleans, Louisiana
TUESDAY, JULY 26, 12:05 A.M.
Lamont frowned at his phone when Stockman’s number popped up. It was about time. He’d been sitting in his study, trying to read briefs, since he and Joelle had returned from dinner.
Joelle had come home drunk, as he’d hoped she would. She’d sleep until well after noon tomorrow and then wake with a hangover. Which meant that she’d be holed up in her room for most of the day.
Those were the only days he got any peace at all.
“Is it done?” he snarled into the phone. It had better be done, so help him God.
For a moment, all he heard was heavy breathing. Then a quiet moan of pain.
“No,” came the whispered reply. “I’m shot. It’s... not good.”
He strained his ears, not believing what he’d just heard. “You got shot? By whom, for fuck’s sake?”
“That damn kid. Morrow.”
For a moment, he could only stare, shocked. “The nerdy kid? Who’s always studying? The one who’s going to be a doctor? He shot you? And you let him?”
Stockman grunted, and even through the phone he could hear his right-hand man’s displeasure. And probably some pain as well. “I am shot.” A shuddered exhale. “In the chest. I am bleeding.”
Which was going to cause a whole host of other problems. “Did you get the kid?”
“No.”
Lamont closed his eyes, fury washing over him in slow waves. “Why the hell not?”
Stockman coughed and he thought he heard a faint gurgle. This was bad. They covered up the murders of other people. Lamont had never needed to cover up the murder of one of his trusted men. “He ran. Shot me... and ran.” Another cough. “Didn’t know... he had a gun.” A ragged inhale. “Not registered.”
“Where are you?” he asked icily. He’d need to fetch Stockman, either to get him help or to dispose of his body.
“ER.”
Lamont’s mouth fell open. “You’re where? You are not going to the ER. They’ll call the cops on a gunshot wound.”
Another grunt, this one sharper. “Not gonna die for you.”
Then you’ll die by my hand.He drew a breath, let it out slowly. “I understand. Which hospital?”
“No. Don’t... trust you.”
At least Stockman’s brain was still working. “Don’t fuck around, Stockman. Tell me where you are.”
But the call had ended. Stockman had hung up on him.
He shoved a hand through his hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He needed to think fast.
