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Chapter Twenty-Eight
Maceo
As I sip my whiskey, I eye Josephine across the living room at headquarters. She’s busy helping Jared and Ziggy plan their wedding.
The crew likes to give Ziggy shit about how fast he moved with Jared, but they shut their traps when I walk on the scene. Those assholes don’t understand what it’s like to find that other half of you, but I do. I know precisely why Ziggy latched onto Jared and is husbanding up.
When you find that piece of you that you hadn’t realized you missed until it’s there in your sights, you don’t slow down. You charge full steam ahead.
Josephine is in her element. She’s got a whole binder of ideas and a spreadsheet for accounts. Jared and Jo are of a similar mindset when it comes to style. Ziggy is as wild as the artist of the song he’s named after. Jo tries to be a non-biased mediator as the guys hash out a color scheme, but the designer in her is having a hard time trying to compromise with Ziggy’s taste.
At twenty weeks, she’s glowing and growing. The twins are budding fast, making me wonder how in the hell she’s ever going to make it to term.
I’m also hung up on her gestational diabetes.
The test results have to be wrong, not because I want her to be okay, which I do, but there’s no outside proof to support her diagnosis when her numbers don’t reflect it.
Flay sits with me in the billiard room watching the college basketball game. It’s not my sport of choice, but I chill with Flay, waiting for a break in the game to ask my questions.
He throws back his drink, watching the room. When he sees everyone preoccupied, he whispers, “Your thoughts are loud, Prez. What’s on your mind?”
With my back turned away from the rest of the crew, I confess my concern. “Josephine’s gestational diabetes—I don’t buy it,” I explain.
“Even healthy women can get gestational diabetes,” Flay explains. “It’s not unusual.”
“I’m telling you, Flay, the lab fucked up or something.”
“She can request another test, but don’t be surprised if it comes back positive again. That all four blood samples came back positive is hard to dispute.”
My jaw ticks with irritation. “Can a different lab run the samples?”
Flay folds his arms over his chest. “Where’s your head at, bro? Do you think the lab purposely sabotaged the test? What could anyone gain by forging the results?”
I’ve asked myself the same questions, but I don’t have a logical answer to any of them.
Flay interrupts my thoughts, asking, “What does Jo think about it? Is she concerned?”
“We’ve talked about how bizarre her numbers are. Jo asked me shortly after she started tracking her numbers if I thought her glucose meter was faulty. She wasn’t getting any out of left field spikes. I told her I didn’t know, but it gave me pause. Since then, she’s brought up how her numbers still are looking good even after eating.”
“I’ll pick up a new test meter. After using it for a couple of days, she’ll see a difference in her numbers that’ll suggest something may be wrong with the old one. I’ll get new test strips while I’m at it. Those have a shelf life, and maybe she got a bad box of them.”
A ragged sigh of relief leaves my lungs. “Thanks, Flay.”
Flay waves me off like it’s no big deal, returning his attention to the TV.
Chase approaches and motions with a head tilt to follow him. “Got something to show you in tech.”
“Lead the way.” Our jobs rarely allow us to take a break. If Chase says he needs to show me something, it’s not for nothing. Gauge and Punk see the two of us leaving the main living area and join us.
“What we got?” Judging by the monitors on the wall displaying the maps we took from Esteban’s old compound, it has something to do with the fucker. Chase has our full attention.
“Based on the coordinates on the maps, I was able to track down these red location points.” Chase pulls up aerial topography footage. “They’re farms.”
“Fuck me sideways,” Punk says with surprise. “It’s his cash crops. You don’t think he’s still operating these, do you?”
“What I can say for certain is these are still active farms. Whether they belong to Esteban is what we need to find out,” Chase explains.
God, I wish we were that lucky. If we’ve learned anything about the cocksuck, it’s that he covers his ass better than anyone. “What about the others?”
