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“Yes. I’m not going to lie and tell you that I’m not afraid.”
“You should be. What we’re doing is dangerous.”
A knowing look spread across her face. “I told you this before. Don’t die on me.”
“Baby. That’s not going to happen.” Someone was going to lose their life to a bullet but if I was right about who, I wasn’t certain I was ready for the consequences.
But there was no other choice.
* * *
The Wharf.
A celebration of the rich and famous in a down-to-earth lifestyle. The mainly outdoor facility catered to celebrations, boats able to dock feet away from the massive site, music and libations flowing at all times of the day and night.
The crowds were always thick, the noise level intense, and given the denseness of the tables and other facilities, there was also no room for error.
As we walked in, I quickly scanned the location, searching for any signs of trouble. While the Armenian soldiers were easy to spot in mixed company, the men always dressed in all black, in the city of extremes there was a diverse mixture of people. Anyone of them could be a soldier hiding in plain sight.
Of course that would mean they were tipped off as to the destination selected.
The test was nothing more than drawing a line in the sand with blood. I kept my hand on the small of Whitney’s back, guiding her toward the main interior bar. I was itchy to get this over with but not just for the glaring reason of securing the information.
“There she is,” Whitney said quietly but I heard her three words through the noise.
I said nothing, remaining behind her, Stavros flanking my side. No one was paying any attention, but we were ready to strike if necessary. Maxim would need to clean up the mess. I chuckled inwardly at the thought. The brutal Russian had a firm hold on almost every member of law enforcement. I had to give him credit. He’d taken Miami by storm after rising to the position of Pakhan.
Elizabeth noticed us from several feet away, the girl standing out because of her extreme anxiousness. She rushed forward, grabbing Whitney and pulling her into a bearhug. I didn’t hear their words exchanged but at this point it didn’t matter.
“Stay with her,” I told Stavros, nodding toward the girl.
“I don’t mind if I do,” he said with his usual playboy charm.
As the two women exchanged additional words, Elizabeth handing over a large manila envelope, still taped from its passage through the mail, I took a deep breath. I continued scanning the perimeter, my instinct telling me we were being watched.
It was expected but still disturbing.
After two or three minutes, I moved beside the women. “Elizabeth. I wish we could take more time, but we have a plane to catch. Did you drive here?”
“Yes,” she said. “I have my car. What are you going to do with my friend?”
“He’s not going to hurt me, Elizabeth,” Whitney said. “He’s a good guy.”
“He’s a mobster, Whitney. He can’t be trusted.”
Whitney touched her arm. “Yes, he can. He saved my life more than once.”
Elizabeth seemed confused, eyeing me cautiously.
Good girl.
She should be wary of bad men who come into her friend’s life.
“What now?” she asked.
“Now, I go back to Philadelphia.” Whitney was firm in her commitment.
“Forever?”
