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And aside from the nests and bunker-like tunnels diving deep underground, I’m willing to bet there are escape routes that’ll activate as contingencies the second Count Dracula gets tipped off.
Fuck.
The longer Sex runs his mouth, sparing all three dozen of us no detail, the deeper my balls want to crawl up my stomach.
Still, I force myself to pay attention, eyeing the solemn faces of my crew. Everybody assembled here has been through this same song and dance at least half a dozen times before.
Just never anything this hairy.
When we rolled up on Jordan Warzach, we had surprise on our side. The prick had no warning, thinking he was safe on a remote edge of the island where he’d gotten away with his shit for too long.
But with Joaquin and his home field advantage, we’re not getting that lucky twice.
Surprise will be damnably difficult.
The big cartels spare no expense forging ties with officials who can be their eyes and ears. Hell, we may even have a mole being paid fat money in this room right now.
I can only hope whatever time we have left is enough to root out any assholes who’d tip them off.
On the way out, Brad Gering slaps me on the shoulder, healed from his latest run-in with the cartel. We make small talk while he takes up a spot next to me in the gym, along with Batista.
Half the guys on our team are piling in. Guess everyone has the same burning need to blow off some stress by beating their muscles to a pulp.
“Seem to have a lot on your mind, Triton. What the fuck’s going on? Your mother get into the junk again?”
I inwardly cringe, adjusting the pec deck machine that’s about to give my upper body hell.
He’s one of the only guys I’ve told about my rotten family tree over beers and long nights at makeshift bases.
“Yeah, basically the norm. You know how she spirals. She just got out of the hospital, I guess. Thankfully it wasn’t a bad trip this time,” I say dully. “She’s had worse.”
“Oh, shit.” Gering pauses and smiles at me from his leg press. “So if it’s not her...it’s a woman, huh?”
I do a double take as he laughs.
Dickhead.
“You mean it’s agoodone, Gering. Has to be if his balls are this twisted up,” Batista calls from the bench, doing arm curls with a devilish smile on his face.
Correction: two dickheads.
I say nothing.
“C’mon, man, I’d know that look anywhere,” Gering says. “You finally started fucking some chick for more than one night. Wish you’d told me sooner. I would’ve let Sex know we’ve got a double agent in our midst.”
“You’re right. He’s a boring-as-hell, married jackass who never gets more than five nights of sleep chasing after his grandmunchkins,” I say.
And I dart them both a middle finger salute after I finish my first set when I notice they’re still staring.
He laughs it off, and I’m left stewing because he’s right.
No matter how many times I tell Delia the same shit I’ve been telling myself—it’s just a summer fling, a perfect season of wrong—it doesn’t work.
It doesn’t stop this madness I can’t quit.
I don’t even know what this is—I’m sure as shit notdatingmy stepsister.
Am I?
