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Ridge didn’t press further. “Well, my priority is to keep you safe,” he said. “There’s nobody going to hurt you. Do you understand?”
She squeezed his large, warm hand between hers and smiled at him, her first since arriving. “Thank you so much, Ridge.” Relaxing a little, Raven then remembered her friends with a start. “Would you text Maggie or Wes and let them know I’m OK?”
“Want me to tell them you’re at my place?” he asked, sensitive to how that would be seen.
Raven thought for two seconds, then imagined how Maggie would smile about it. “Sure. Leave out the details though, OK? I’m trying to keep them out of it. We’ll just say I braked suddenly to avoid a rabbit and whacked my head.”
Ridge eyed her skeptically but brought out his phone and sent the message. “There’s a friend I’d like to call in the morning. I think he’ll be able to help.”
“Your SEAL buddy at the DEA?” she said.
Ridge laughed. “So youwerepaying attention.” Raven nodded, filled with yet more admiration for this caring half-stranger and happy for any support. “It’s late, and I guess you’re exhausted.” He was going to saybeat, but it hardly seemed appropriate. “I’ll take this couch. Why don’t you shower and then take my room?”
He helped her up and walked her to the bathroom, less unsteadily than before. “Lock the door if you want to,” he said, handing her a towel. “And shake me if you need anything, OK?” He returned to the sofa and started arranging the cushions.
“Ridge?” He turned. “Thanks for everything. I... I hardly know you, but you’ve been so kind.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said, closing the living room curtains and turning on a side light. “Just relax. You couldn’t be safer.”
CHAPTERSIX
When a man achieved notoriety,Vincent reflected, there was no longer the need to chase down those who owed him. A pile of cash the size of a microwave oven sat on a battered wooden table in the center of a cavernous, echoing warehouse building. The only sounds were the retreating footsteps of the two lackeys who had brought Vincent today’s winnings; betting against the Rangers used to feel disloyal, but now it was merely good business practice. He could have had one of his men count the cash, but there was hardly any need. His reputation already cemented by a series of violent reprisals and territorial acquisitions, Vincent knew that a small gambling syndicate would never bedumbenough to short-change him. He lit a cigar and put his feet on the table, relaxing in an ancient but still magnificently comfortable office chair.
“Jesus, Vincent,” came a voice. “Did they used to assemble moon rockets in here or something?” Curt was the square-jawed muscle man of the operation and, despite Vincent’s efforts, still saw fit to express an opinion on almost everything. “This place ishuge!”
Vincent remained seated as the younger, decidedly more brutish man approached the table and took one of the wooden chairs opposite his boss. A severe haircut had left him with a shock of hair that barely covered his scalp, and within his black leather jacket, Vincent was certain, lurked at least two firearms. But Curt was easily controlled, easily manipulated. And Vincent knew just how.
“Curt, it is those keen powers of observation which I intend to put to good use,” Vincent said, his midwestern accent still jarringly alien to south Texas, even after a year here. “You’ll remember our good friend Hank Samuelson?”
Curt grunted. “A delivery boy, right? Low-level.” For Curt, people were either ‘low-level,’ in which case they could safely be treated like crap, or ‘high-level,’ which meant they received deference, obedience, and instant loyalty. It was a stark social division that had served Vincent well.
“A delivery boy, as you say, Curt, but not a very good one. He appears,” Vincent explained, puffing frequently on his cigar, “to have allowed his delivery to go missing.”
Curt shook his head. “Dumbass.”
“Quite so, Curt. Your judgment of character is as perspicacious as your architectural analysis.” Vincent loved to bandy around these huge words, the better to cement his status as a ‘high-level’ player; with intelligence, he had come to understand, came respect, in much greater amounts (and more genuinely) than through violence. Though physical action still had its place, so much more could be achieved by mental agility.
“Want me to smack him, boss?” asked Curt, eager to please, as ever.
“I think not, on this occasion. How, one might ask, would a battered and bruised Hank Samuelson produce cocaine and cash which an undamaged Hank Samuelson was unable to produce?”
Curt thought this one over. “Want to put some pressure on, instead?”
Ah, you’re learning, my muscular young apprentice.“He’s in the booming metropolis of Pendale, Texas. Do you know it?” Curt shook his head once more. “No, I’m not surprised. There’s no reason to. Still, our Hank has found lodgings at a motel near town, and has been making contact with family in the area. “
Curt frowned for a second. “How do we know that?”
“We have the technology,” Vincent said cryptically, tapping the side of his nose. “Now, why would you think he’s bothering to visit Pendale?”
“To borrow the money?”
“Good analysis, my muscled friend. But one would be surprised, would one not, to discover that one’s family were able to produce from under their floorboards six kilograms of high-grade Colombian cocaine?”
Curt smiled, enjoying his boss’s favorite methods of delivering news. And work. “One would,” he replied.
“Still, money is money, and wherever he gets it from, it will end upright here,” he said, tapping the table. “All you have to do is make sure his family, or friends, or whoever, sufficiently understands the gravity of the situation.”
“I’m pretty good at gravity,” Curt responded, cracking his knuckles.
