In the wings,says the first message.
Say the word, reads the second.
It’s all shit code—the hallmark of a cheap mercenary, but the last message is a little more specific.No answer, we come in. Ten minutes.The time stamp says the message was sent eight minutes ago.
“Shit.” I look at the girl and cut my eyes to the door. “We need to go.”
But not without taking the trash out first. I grab the bastard by the sleeve of his suit and drag him to the first closet I find, barring the door with a chair.
Tucking his phone into my pocket, I brush past the woman and peer out into the hallway through the peephole. With one minute left, I open the door, dragging her out after me. I only have a split second to think before I throw my arm around her shoulders and pull her close. For appearances, a woman wearing a black trench coat and a man who might have a gun in his pocket may seem less threatening if they walk down the hall like two patrons of the hotel rather than criminals. Intheory.
She wobbles on the heels Mack made her wear and has to hold her arm awkwardly against her chest to hide the knife in her hand. Somehow, we manage to make it to the lobby using the stairs. I don’t catch sight of any mercenaries rushing past on our way out, either, not that we stick around to get a good fucking look.
Mack’s still waiting in the van out front—at least the fucker hasn’t run.
“How’d it go?” he asks without even craning his neck to look at the woman I’m shoving onto the back seat of the van.
The front seat is still open—his men chose to sit in the very next row, hunched over and tense—but I don’t know what makes me climb in after her, pressing her slender body against the opposite door. I don’t miss how the act takes her out of Mack’s line of sight. He doesn’t, either.
“Dante?” There’s a hard note in his tone. The Mad Dog’s used to barking out his own orders these days. He doesn’t seem to remember when he and “Kitty” fought and clawed over the exact same scraps. “Did she go through with it?”
“No.” I slam the door shut and the overhead light clicks off.
Mack’s men perk up instantly, feeding off the hostility thatlaces the air. It’s a bitter, cheap drug,hatred. I let them get high off it and rise to action, readying for the moment Mack says jump. Then I replace it with a harsh dose of reality.
“It was like I said: You walked right into a fucking trap.” I palm the camera and throw it between the heads of the two punks in front of me, leaving Mack to catch it.
He does with one hand, his face expressionless. “A trap?” he wonders coldly.
“He planned to make his little video and then take the girl. The fucker even hired a few mercenaries to help him nab her right out from under your nose.” I point through the windshield as if one of the bastards in question might suddenly appear on the hood of the van. “I suggest you move.”
Gritting his teeth, Mack glances at one of the men seated behind him and inclines his head once. “You drive. Go!”
The man climbs into the front seat, and the van takes off, careening down alleys and side streets. We’re maybe a block away from the hotel when Mack finally lifts the camera; the glow of a nearby taillight makes the lens glow red.
“What the fuck is this, then?”
My mouth twitches into something that could be another goddamn smile—or maybe it’s a snarl? Whatever it is, I wear it while I stare the fucker down until he turns his attention to the dashboard instead.
“We made our own video,” I say. “Send that to Stacatto.”
Mack laughs—it’s a harsh sound punctuated by the growl of the mutt I know well. He’s bitter, snarling for his missing bone. “And what about the information? Did you forget about that while you were too busy making sure that no one else fucked your little toy?”
Anger flares...but with the scent of spice in my nose, it’s easier to fight it down. My vision stays clear, but my lungs expand, instinctively rebelling against the substance they breathe in. Her.
“Watch the tape,” I tell him. “I’d hate to spoil the ending...but we got the locations.”
“And?” Mack prompts, his tone sharp.
“Andshehas them.” I jab my thumb at the girl. “Locked away in her pretty little head.”
Mack goes silent, allowing the words to sink in. It’s a dangerous game to play tug-of-war with a pit bull. Years in the pit have honed Mack’s baser instincts. He can’t resist a challenge. I sense the girl stiffen, damn well aware of the fact that I’ve just made her the shiny bit of rope in this game—but prison has taught me a few tricks of my own.
I know just how far to push my newfound bit of leverage. And I know, even before he clenches his jaw in defeat, that Mack won’t be able to resist taking a bite.
“And I thought prison had made you soft, Kitten,” he murmurs loudly enough for me to hear. It’s not a compliment—oh, no. It’s a threat. “Just tell me what you plan to do with the locations of the girls but no manpower to go and get them? And please, Dante, don’t insult my intelligence by claiming to go to the cops. You were always thesmartone, remember?”
I know I grin again, but as usual, it doesn’t feel right; I show too many teeth. “You’re going to help, of course,” I say. As much as it fucking stings to admit, Mack is the only one in the position to spring that kind of operation—for now. “But you won’t keep the girls. You’ll get the drugs.”
