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“Forget the fact that bombs were dropped on the place not too long ago or that students flooded out faster than water from a broken damn, you getting entangled with these people endangers the IPT mission, not to mention our press coverage.”
Tie finally straight, he steps back.
Turning away, I slip on my dress shoes and bend to tie them, grateful to avoid his gaze because he’s right. But, also, it’s not that simple. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Standing, I find his eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. A scowl he’s directing at me. I take that as my cue to leave and head back to the living room, which is neat as a pin thanks to my current level of anxiety.
Victor follows me out. “It’s not worth the money, man. Walk away. Learn whatever the fuck you need to learn, get back to letting go of the bad shit and making some good shit happen.”
I pull my tuxedo jacket off its hanger in my coat closet because I’m ready to get the hell out of here and get this over with. “Look, Justice is the good shit, and her family—mostof her family—are the good guys.”
He crosses his arms, leans to one side. “Is this love or business?”
He deserves a serious answer. “It’s both.” And more. “Lo siento, amigo. I’ve got to go.”
“Sure. Hurry along. Chase after that chick like a groupie tailing a tour bus, but you better hope that bus isn’t lined with explosives, because this kind of stuff gets a guy killed.”
* * *
The doorman holds openthe door as I exit my building. “Good evening, Mr. Ross. Your limo has arrived, sir.”
“Thanks, Al.” We share an awkward smile. Limos aren’t typically waiting to pick me up. In fact, I would’ve driven myself, but Mukta pointed out that, having my car hanging out on campus or the airport while I fly with Justice to Mexico, could be a bit eyebrow-raising.
Skirting the construction tape—they’re always doing some construction here—I
introduce myself to the driver, who nods politely. I slip inside the car.
The driver walks around and gets in the front seat without shutting my door. A limo driver who trusts his passenger to shut his own door? Maybe he’s new. I reach out and close the door. The driver pulls away.
It’s nice in here, smells like mint and leather. Interior lights cast a faintly bluish glow on the sleek interior. There’s a minibar and some snacks. Nice, but still not enough to lift my spirits. Victor comparing me to a groupie chasing a tour bus really got under my skin.
Honestly, it would be a hell of a lot better if I were being led around by my dick. At least I’d have single-mindedness on my side. Right now, every doubt in my mind is playing Russian roulette with my determination. Is the plan good enough? Will it work? Is there another way?
I roll my shoulders to loosen up. No good. It’s not only nerves. It’s also guilt. Victor said he didn’t want to know, but that’s not the same as giving him a choice on what’s happening. After this mission—after Justice and her family and the school are safe—I’ll have enough leverage to insist Mukta only involve the IPT in legal operations. Anything else will have to go through Victor, which means she’ll have to bring him in on her operations. Something, I know she’ll never do.
The limo turns a little too quickly, and I slide against my seatbelt in the long back seat. Where is this guy going? I press the button to lower the partition. “Driver, you missed the turn for 76. Has the venue been changed? I thought the affair was at the Parish home.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and my heart kicks in my chest.
Finally, he says, “Sorry, sir, we have one other guest to pick up before we get there.”
The partition goes back up. My palms start to itch. Mukta does things differently, so it might well be that we’re picking someone else up, but given tonight’s mission, I highly doubt it.
I’m on high-alert when the limo turns toward the Ben Franklin Bridge exit. There’s no way Mukta would send a car that has to circle this far back in the wrong direction. I lean forward and press the partition button. There’s an audibleclick, but it doesn’t budge. He’s locked it.
The driver speeds up. My gut churning, I take off my seatbelt and shift into the seat opposite of me, so that I’m seated under the partition. I knock. “Hey, buddy.”
He ignores me, slowing the car for traffic. I shift back to my seat and grab the door handle. It’s locked and so’s the window. I pull out my cell phone. No signal. I should get a signal just fine, so it’s likely jammed. Okay, if this guydoeswork for Mukta, his night is about to suck royally.
Leaning back, bracing myself with my arm, I kick out my leg and drive the heel of my shoe into the window… one, two, three times.
It splinters like a web.
Security glass. Barely cracked it with these rubber-soled, piece-of-shit shoes. My leg aches for my trouble—and me without a gun. I didn’t bother, knowing I’d be searched at the Parish home. The last thing I wanted was the FBI to mark me as someone who goes to a birthday party armed. Damn it. Screwed myself over with that decision.
Leg aching, I keep kicking until the limo banks to the right and I fall onto the floor. I climb back into my seat as we veer off the exit and into a rundown area close to the docks that could double as a landfill—rusted metal fence, trash piled up alongside large, dented storage containers, a bulky, bolt-rusted crane with a precariously dangling claw.
The driver veers manically around the containers, as if he knows exactly where he’s going. Lights hit us from behind. Another car here likely means this guy brought friends and this has been carefully planned out.
