Ignoring her disgruntlement, I try to gather my windswept thoughts. My mind is whirring uncontrollably, tossing out different scenarios and options. Complicated doesn’t begin to cover the clusterfuck Raye has uncovered.
This was meant to be easy. Locate Lawson, pluck her out of whatever hovel the cartel had her working in, or perhaps locate her corpse, then deliver her to those dickheads at Sabre to secure myself the favour of the century.
That’s a little hard to do when our mark is a bonafide assassin raking in millions for a powerful criminal empire. She’ll be near impossible to locate, let alone free.
“Where is she now?” I demand. “Fuck, you should’ve stayed in Mexico! We need eyes on her.”
Snatching the bottle of whiskey, Raye dumps an oversized measure into her own glass, disregarding mine. I watch her angrily toss it back with barely a wince.
“First of all, fuck you. I did my job. I found her.”
“Well, you?—”
“Second of all,” she plows on. “768 is in the wind. No one knows when or where she’s going to pop up to fight next. Whoever’s controlling her… they’ve got her location locked down tight.”
“Someone must know!”
“Her fights aren’t exactly public knowledge, Blaine! She pops up, beats the shit out of whoever she’s battling, then vanishes with the fucking cash. The cycle repeats.”
“Then we need to get ahead of her.”
Rising to stand, I give Raye my back while I locate a clean, black t-shirt from the chest at the back of my office. We’ve gotten used to bouncing around with no real home or possessions, so I always keep spares on hand.
Competing ideas continue to flit around inside my skull as I eye my other shirt, laying in bloodstained tatters on the metal floor where I ripped it off when I stormed up here.
Our enemies have gotten bold in my absence. Sending a member of their syndicate here to wave a knife around was a poor choice. Lucky for him, his heart gave out before I could finish plucking his severed fingers off.
It isn’t that hard to do once you know how to slice the cartilage just right. Those fingers have already been sent to our rivals as a warning. Nobody messes with the Madden dynasty.
“Blaine! Care to clue me in?”
“I’m still thinking.” Tugging the t-shirt over my head, it covers my ugly quilt of scars. “How well-protected is she while fighting?”
Raye wrinkles her nose. “From what I saw, she doesn’t need protection. Bitch is a fucking hellhound. Those men are her captors, not her guards.”
“And you have no idea where she’ll be fighting next?”
“It’s a big country,” she snarls acidly. “I can’t keep track of every last underground club. If you want to find her, you need a professional tracker.”
“That can be arranged.”
Floral tattoo-covered arms folded, Raye pins me with the stink eye. It’s not my favourite look on her. She’s loyal to a goddamn fault, but nine times out of ten, she’s a massive pain in my backside.
“What are you plotting? Why do you care about her?”
“I don’t care about Ember Lawson,” I quickly deny.
“Then what’s the deal? Why is she so important?”
“Because she’s the key to everything.”
Moving to face the dirt-speckled, floor-to-ceiling warehouse windows, I gaze outside. The metal, crisscrossed slats offer snapshots of the capital’s lawless streets.
This deep into London’s seedy underbelly, we’re surrounded by the industrial beating heart of the glitz and glamour that most associate with this city. Reality is far less romantic.
The United Kingdom is no different than any other country. We have our own underground subculture of criminality and exploitation. For years, I benefitted from it. Until my own family turned against me.
“We’ve been searching for my father since we regrouped and resumed operations.” My attention remains locked outside. “But without success.”
