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“For now,” James adds.
“For now.” There will be men coming up through the ranks, a mad scramble to fill the boots of Vince Roake. “We still don’t know where the Polish keep the women they’re shipping in.” Or, indeed,howthey’re shipping them in.
“Assuming they’re not storing them in the vault at the bank Kenny Spittle managed.” Otto raises his brows.
“They’re women, not fairies, for fuck’s sake,” Brad mutters. “The drugs and guns are or were being kept at the bank. We have The Shark left batting for the Poles, and The Ox, Sandy, and Volodya winning for the Russians.”
Winning.
With the Russian’s heading up the guns side of this cozy little setup, they’re most certainly winning. We’ve failed to take out any of the fuckers at the top ofthattree, and now that we know their puppet master isn’t dead? I blow out my cheeks and drag a hand down my face. They must have laughed their way to the bank. Kenny Spittle’s bank. I frown, looking at Otto. “There’s been no action at the bank?” I ask.
“Nothing. No one going in, no one coming out.”
“And Kenny Spittle?”
“He’s still in the container, although his scheduled annual leave is almost up. It won’t be long before colleagues at the bank start asking questions when he doesn’t return to work. Leon’s feeding and watering him daily.”
“Why?” James asks. “Just kill the fucker.”
I smile to myself. “And you tell meI’mhasty?”
“The only way Oliver Burrows could have known our old friend Agent Spittle was dead is if his son Kenny told him, since there is no body.”
I hum, thoughtful. “And when you left the station after Higham intervened, Burrows didn’t follow you, but The Hound did.” More fool The Hound, who James quickly blew up. “No activity on his phone?”
“Not a whisper,” Otto confirms.
So, no one’s apparently active, and there’s been no signs of the Russians, not Sandy or that fucker Volodya, who, inconveniently, isn’t dead after all. Not dead, but still not showing his face. “I think Luis definitely needs a bit more discount on his order,” I muse, looking at James. He nods, hearing me. If the puppet master has demanded quiet on the western front, we’ll demand attention, and there’s nothing like stiff competition to get me some attention. Or to bring someone out of hiding.
“Do you think the radio silence on the phone is because they know we have Kenny?” Ringo asks.
“Orthinkwemighthave him.”
“They’ll soon show up at the bank looking for him. Make sure you’ve got his house covered too. How’s the boatyard repairs coming on?”
“Complete,” Otto confirms.
“Good.” Because we’re going to need it. Let’s see if we can wake up Miami.
6
ROSE
All eyes were on me as I made my way to the pool and sat on the edge, my naked legs dangling in. No one murmured a word, not for a few minutes, until Brad killed the quiet with another poke at my curry. His attempt to break the atmosphere was appreciated, and I managed a small smile over my shoulder.
A half-hour later, I’m still here, my palm resting over my arm, my remorse thick, as is my headache. I see Beau’s reflection in the water and blindly lift my hand. She takes it and joins me, pushing her shoulder into mine. “You’re not in this alone,” she says quietly, her feet starting to swish through the water. She’s not trying to pull my head out of my ass or insinuate that it’s not all about me, she’s simply reminding me that she’s here for me.
I tighten my grip of her hand in answer, and we fall into a comfortable silence for a while. I wonder what she’s thinking. I wonder how she appears so stable when the source of her misery has recently declared he’s still walking the earth. Still here to taunt us all. But knowing Beau as I do, she hides her grief well. Unlike me. I seem hell-bent on throwing my weight around and making my husband’s life even more difficult than it already is. God damn me. God damn the demons that bubble under the surface. Freedom and happiness keep tickling the edges of my life and then retreating, exposing me to the world I thought I’d escaped. God damnthem.
In our marriage, it has always been me who lashes out. Retaliates. Loses my mind. Just the mere fact that Danny lost all sense of presence and didn’t read the signs of my despair when we were having sex speaks volumes for his state of mind. As does the fact he got so drunk. He’s not himself. Seems vulnerable, and that isn’t my husband. Neither do I want it to be.
“What can I do to help?” Beau breaks the silence.
“Kill the right man next time?” I turn a smile onto her, and she rolls her eyes. “I’m kidding.”
“No, you’re not.”
She’s right, I’m not. Beau was like a walking example of serenity in the few short weeks we all thought it was over. I want that for her again. I want that for us all. I look at her, wondering if she’s faking that serenity now, because she’s still so fucking calm and it’s making me feel a bit inferior to be honest. Is she a swan, graceful and together to the world, but paddling like crazy beneath the surface? “How areyou?” I ask, and she tilts her head, amused. Maybe I should try that meditation she talked about.
