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Dart in hand, I take a deep breath and aim.
Chapter eighteen
Kai
“MindifIuseyour phone again?” Casey asks me on the drive back to the cabin.
I hand it over to her. She dials the number for her bodyguard, and it goes straight to voicemail. She furrows her brow.
“I’m gonna text my dad, let him know I’m with a, um, friend,” she says.
At some point she’s going to learn that she’s my captive, in reality, not just fantasy. But I find myself wondering if it’s possible to keep up the charade to the end and spare her any potential trauma from knowing the truth.
Raphael Lee, another member of theJing Sanwhom I look up to as an older brother, is strict about not letting zeros—civilians not associated with gangs or organized crime—get caught in the crosshairs of what we do. Casey isn’t a zero because of her father, but she also didn’t choose to be born into the mafia.
After handing back my phone, she says, “That was a fucking good burger and fries. And the guac on it was awesome.”
She had scarfed the burger down like there was no tomorrow. I thought she was going to order a second one.
“Do you get to come up here whenever you want?” she asks me.
“Pretty much,” I reply.
“You’re so lucky.”
“Pay your dues in life, and you might end up lucky, too.”
She knits her brow. “Like, what kind of dues?”
“Figure it out, princess.”
She pouts, probably expecting me to provide her the answer.
“What do you want out of life?” I elaborate. “And what are you willing to do or sacrifice to get it?”
She turns the question on me. “What did you want out of life?”
To be the best arms dealer inJing Sanhistory,I silently reply.
“To be the best at what I do,” I answer instead.
“You’re not the best already?”
I will be once I get that SVATR laptop back from your fucking dad.
“Almost,” I say.
“Why do you want to be the best? Seems like you’re already pretty successful. It’s not like you need more money, right? Unless you want to build a rocket to Mars or buy up some island country.”
“Honor,” I tell her. “For myself. For my father, who was in the same line of business.”
She looks like she’s trying to wrap her head around the idea, eventually responding with, “Cool.”
“So what are you after in life?” I inquire. It’s not a question I should be asking. She’s my captive, my hostage. What does it matter what she wants?
“A good time.”
No surprise there. My father would have disdained such a frivolous answer. But I can see the appeal. Maybe I’ll take a piece of that—after I get my laptop back and this deal done.
