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“I’m your worst fucking nightmare, and if you don’t do exactly as I say, I’ll leave you with a bullet in each of your knees, then my friend will break your fingers—one by one. Do I make myself clear?”
“Fuck.”
“I repeat, you’ll do exactly as I say, capeesh?”
“Yeah, yeah, okay, just get off my fucking neck.”
Jim Parker couldn’t sleep.
Insomnia had plagued him since accepting one hundred thousand dollars from Sonny Conchello years before.
And the money had kept coming.
Jim loved the oodles of cash.
It made the restless nights tolerable.
But now Elizabeth had disappeared.
The thought of her being in Conchello’s clutches was almost too much to bear.
His cell phone rang.
Bleary-eyed and wide awake, he almost welcomed the distraction.
“Why don’t you turn that damn thing off and give yourself a break once in a while?” his wife grumbled as he sat up.
“I wish I could,” he replied, lifting it off the nightstand and frowning at the screen.
His heart skipped.
Unidentified caller.
Conchello?
“Hello?” Jim muttered, hastily climbing from the bed and leaving the room.
“Jim, it’s David Clark.”
“What the hell? Why are you calling me?”
“Our boss says you have to come to the islands right away.”
A cold chill pricking his skin, Jim tried to control his panic as he hurried down the stairs and into his study.
Conchello had just restructured his organization.
Jim was now in charge of the street dealers’ network.
He was about to become filthy rich, but it required him to remain in Los Angeles.
Why was the drug lord suddenly demanding his presence in the islands?
“Jim? Jim, are you there?” David asked urgently. “Hello? Are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” Jim replied, entering the small office and quickly closing the door. “Let me speak to him.”
“He doesn’t want to talk. You have to catch the next flight out.”
