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“We’re never gonna find him if we kill everyone linked to him before we interrogate them.”
“Fuck... me,” I grouse, passing Drake and heading for the office. “Anyone would think you like torturing people. Weren’t you ever taught that curiosity killed the—”
“Crime lord?”
“Fuck you,” I snap, pushing my way into the office and going to the bookcase, just as Brad comes out with Nolan.
“What’s going on?”
“Russians outside. Apparently want to talk.” I jog up the stairs and head for the locked cabinet in the corner.
“What’s going on?” Otto asks from the couch, his laptop on his lap, his phone at his ear.
I grab a machine gun and a belt of bullets, attaching it as I head back out, Otto now on my tail. “I’ve got to go, Boo. Call you later.”
Boo?I swing around, now armed, and Otto backs up, hands up, his phone held high.
Facing me.
My mother’s name on the screen.
“Be cool, Danny,” he says.
“Be cool, Danny,” Brad parrots, their pleas having the opposite effect, my blood beginning to boil. A difficult, callous wife, cheeky fucking Russians, missing dead parents, and now this fucker is trying to get my mother into bed? I step forward. “Stay the fuck away from my mum.”
He has the nerve to look pissed off.
“And how the fuck did you hit your head?”
Otto frowns and reaches for his baseball cap. “How—”
“Forget it, I don’t give a shit.” I point my machine gun at him. “Stay away from her.” I leave him with that warning and throw Brad a shotgun before hurrying back downstairs. “And get more guns,” I yell back, entering the club again, seeing James still with Drake.
I pass the girls at the bar. “Danny, what’s going on?” Rose calls. “Danny!”
“You move from that stool, Rose, I swear to God...” I stop and show her my incensed eyes, and she wilts, knowing now is not one of the times she should push me. Thank God. I toss the belt over my shoulder and load, ignorant to the attention of those who have noticed The Brit striding through the club armed with a fully automatic AR15.
I make it onto the street where Des is alone, guarding the entrance, a Heckler outnumbering the unarmed Russians.
None of which I recognize.
Not Volodya. Not Sandy. So...
“The Ox,” I say, taking in the guy up front in a badly fitted gray suit.
“The Brit,” he purrs, smiling. “Is this how you greet all your guests?”
“Ones I want to kill, yes.” I smile and hold up the gun, dipping into my pocket and pulling out my Marlboros. I grip one with my teeth, slide it out, and light it, never taking my eyes off him. “You deal in guns, and yet you turn up here unarmed,” I say.
“I told your Black friend here, I come in peace.”
“There is no peace in my world, never will be, so what the fuck do you want from me, except certain death?”
“I am a fair man, Black. I want to do business and exist in peace here in your fine country. You returning to Miami has upset my balance.”
“Perhaps some yoga will fix that.” I pout, exhaling smoke, hearing the other men join me, all now armed.
“You’re supplying the Mexicans,” he says.
