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“How do you propose shipping half a million dollars’ worth of firearms through dozens of Coast Guard boats and crew?”
I squint, thinking. “Leave it with me.” I punch out a message to Chaka telling him we have to take the guns on the nineteenth and we’ll pay him a bonus and not kill him. He answers quickly with a smiley face.
This fucking deal isn’t going to be worth doing soon, what with discounts and bonuses. But making money we do not need isn’t the purpose of this deal. Smoking the Russians out is the purpose of this deal. And yet the exchange is creeping closer, has been set up for weeks, and there’s still been no sight nor sound from them. Of course, the whole criminal web is undoubtedly regrouping and restructuring after the demise of so many significant members, but we know The Ox, Sandy, and Volodya are still breathing. It was the Poles and Irish that bore the brunt of our killing spree, all in the name of finding The Bear. Slimy arsehole. We won’t get it wrong next time. Not that Perry Adams didn’t deserve to die. Every man who fell victim to us deserved to die, so it’s not a total loss. The world is less a few pieces of shit.
But The Bear? He isn’t just a piece of shit. He’s the king of shits. The puppet master. The man who is the root of Beau’s injuries and my baby’s death. I blink back the dark spots in my vision. Swallow down the burning anger rising.
Fuck.
I wander over to the drinks cabinet and pour a vodka.
“All right?” Brad asks tentatively as I neck the lot, hoping the liquid will cool the fury brewing. It’s been a while since I’ve felt the rage that used to rule me.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat and look down at my mobile when it rings again. “Higham,” I say quietly, looking up at Brad.
“What the fuck does that FBI prick want?”
Good fucking question. The last time I saw him, he let me walk free after Beau’s ex-boyfriend cop, Oliver Burrows, arrested me for the murder of Agent Frank Spittle. It didn’t go down very well with Burrows, and it didn’t go down all too well with me to find out I was being followed by The Hound after Higham let me walk free. I smile, remembering that Polish fucker’s tattooed face the moment before the grenade I’d bowled under his vehicle blew up. He thought he’d got The Enigma.Idiot.
I answer my mobile and hit the loudspeaker icon. “Black’s not answering.” Higham says, getting straight to the point.
“He’s busy.”
“Soyou’re back.” he muses, and Brad rolls his eyes. News sure does travel fast.
“Danny did warn you we would be.”
“You’ve hardly given me time to prepare for your return.”
“How can I help you, Agent Higham?”
He laughs lightly. “You could help me by disappearing off the face of the earth and taking The Brit with you, but we all know that’s not going to happen, is it?”
“Nope.”
“Thought not. So let’s start with why you’re back in town.”
“We’ve missed you.”
“And why are things going to kick off?”
“Oh, the anticipation must be killing you.”
“Don’t fuck with me, James. I’m standing here looking at Carlo Black’s empty grave.”
I recoil, and Brad flies up from his chair. “Excuse me?”
“You heard.”
“I think I heard.”
There’s silence for a few uncomfortable moments, until Higham breaks it. “This wasn’t Danny’s doing?”
“Danny’s not in town. And why the fuck would he dig up his dead father, Higham?”
“To stop some other fucked-up psycho digging him up, I assumed.” A car door slams in the background. “Danny’s not in Miami?”
“No, he’s not in fucking Miami.”
