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“Did you want to wait here while I go get the blue paint?” she teases.
I grin down at her. “You make it hard to want to leave.”
“Do you really have to go?”
Oh, I want to say I don’t. But my mind is screaming at me to get this shit with my old man over with so we can get him the hell out of our lives.
“I want to get this all resolved before the baby’s born. I don’t want the Bloodhound to ever have any reason to come around. I’m going to do this last thing and then we’re finished.”
“Okay.” She pulls back and smiles. “You go and I’ll see you tonight.”
I back away toward the door reluctantly. At the last second, I turn back. “Sloan?”
She looks up at me. “Yeah?”
I’m about to tell her I love her. About to hand all the power in our relationship to her. It’s on my lips. I can feel the words buzzing on my tongue. They taste so, so sweet.
Instead, I just nod solemnly. “Be careful today. I’ll call you.”
Then I turn and leave. The door shutting behind me sounds heart-wrenchingly final.
When I drive up to the warehouse, there are three of his guys outside. My car pulling in stirs moderate interest among them. One guy shifts his leather jacket back so I can see the gun holstered at his ribs. Another one stares but doesn’t move.
The third guy waves. He’s the dumbass of the group—the old man keeps one around all the time. He’s the one Bobby would send into a burning building to get whatever property he deems worthy.
Thus, he’s my target.
But I can’t go straight for the weakest link. I’m going to let him see me talk to the other guys first. Let him see me, the Bloodhound’s son, talk to two of his friends. Let him think it’s all fine and dandy.
Let him think I’m not going to rip his fucking throat out as soon as I get the chance.
Gunnar, the one carrying, is ex-military. A badass who came home from war to a country where he was suddenly no longer allowed to murder indiscriminately.
Pope, the statue, found my old man when he was just a kid. He’s a shadowy dude. A blank slate that Bobby Daniels has filled in however he saw fit.
My weak link is named Ugly Joe. That backstory is more or less self-explanatory.
I greet them each one by one, though I stop far enough away to signal that I’m not a physical threat. Not yet, at least. “Gunnar. Pope. Joe.”
They grunt in turn. Gunnar and Pope nod, stone-faced. Joe waves and grins at me with the last two of his teeth that his meth addiction hasn’t yet stolen.
“I’m here for business.”
Pope grunts again.
“He mentioned some shit being ignored,” I continue. “Some missing funds. Who’s taking care of that kind of thing these days?”
Joe shrugs and looks over his shoulder at Gunnar and Pope. Then he turns back to me and shrugs again. “We don’t know nothing about none of that.”
“You sure?” I ask. “What about?—”
“He said we don’t know nothing about none of that,” Gunnar snarls. He flashes his gun at me again. “Go home, Beck. You don’t belong here.”
Pope’s eyes darken. I back away slowly with my hands held high. They’re pricklier than I’ve ever seen them before. Something is happening. Dissension in the ranks, maybe. The Bloodhound’s operation unraveling.
Couldn’t come fucking soon enough.
I nod. “Alright. Good to see you, gentlemen.”
