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“I’m grabbing my wallet, and then we’re leaving,” he says. “You have five minutes, Jim. That’s it.”
Fuck.
That’s Lorenzo.
He’s one of three people I’ve seen make drop offs with my dad. But the other two are never there without him. That’s how I know he’s in charge.
That also means I have no time at all.
Dammit.
I’ve got to hurry and find his fucking car.
I glance around the parking garage, seeing the younger man in the booth dozing with his feet propped up. It’s late in the evening, so I don’t blame him for wanting a nap. His habits are helping me.
Except they really aren’t.
I’m looking for a black Mercedes... But there are a dozen of them in this garage.
Thirteen, to be exact.
It’s fucking ludicrous.
Does no one buy red cars anymore? Or silver… Or even freaking blue.
I drop my phone in my breast pocket as I pick my first targets. I start with the three parked side-by-side, peeking in the windows to see if I’m lucky.
The first two are empty, except one of them has a pile of jackets in the back seat. That’s definitely a woman’s vehicle if I’ve ever seen one. I bet the trunk is full of shit, too.
The third one has a five percent type of tint on the windows. They’re basically blacked out unless you’re a few inches away. The closer I get my face to the glass, the more confident I am in what I’m seeing.
There’s a duffle bag in the back seat.
But the fucking door is locked.
I contemplate busting the window, though I decide to check the other doors first.
The passenger side doesn’t budge. I peer around the garage and walk to the driver’s side.
That door is miraculously unlocked.
I nearly throw my head back to laugh as I open it and hit the button for the locks. The low click is music to my ears.
I bump the door closed, being as quiet and firm as possible. Then I open the back driver’s side door and grin as the black duffle bag greets me.
“Don’t get too excited,” I whisper to myself as I lean over to reach the handles. “It could be gym clothes.”
But as soon as I move the duffle, I hear the faint shift of a plastic bag.
Fucking jackpot.
I rip the zipper down, anxiety creeping up my neck as time dwindles down. There are two large baggies inside the duffle, filled with pale pink tablets, the signature M on their surfaces. I tuck my t-shirt into the top of my pants, so the bags don’t fall out… And then I drop them down my V-neck.
I press the door closed with my hip and head toward the elevator, mismatching the buttons on my flannel to draw attention upward instead of to my suddenly full stomach pouch.
You should have worn a hoodie, Quin.
I would have if I planned this trip. But I didn’t. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision after talking to Ridge Copeland, asshole extraordinaire. Delivery days make him a raging lunatic.
