I wish I was with you.
Will you take care of my sister if it turns out that I can’t?
I love you.
Benito’s hands shook. He tightened them on the steering wheel.
“I should go,” Mickey said when he didn’t speak. “You shouldn’t be on the phone when you’re driving.”
“You’re on speaker.”
“Yeah, but still. Focus on the road. Let me know when you get home?”
It was a new thing, the early morning texts Benito sent if they didn’t meet at the gym. Mickey always replied within seconds, and Benito was darkly addicted to the thrill in his soul when the simple good morning hit his screen. “Of course,” he said. “And I’ll see you after? Tomorrow, I mean?”
“For real. I’m counting on it, man. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
Mickey ended the call. Silence hit Benito like a brick wall. Then white noise filled his head, laced with searing panic. He thumped his chest as if he could subdue his racing heart with brute force, but nothing changed. And up ahead, the BMW began to slow, taking an exit Benito had discounted enough to leave the SUV close by. What the hell?
He flicked his indicator and followed the beamer off the main road. The exit led to a couple of dead-end villages and another faceless industrial estate. Benito’s car was hidden on abandoned farmland nearby. The BMW drove right past it, and real fear gripped Benito’s heart. Had he been made before the journey had even begun?
The Fiesta chugged past the turning that concealed the SUV. Benito reached for the scaffold pipe stashed beneath the passenger seat. His fingers closed around cold metal, and the familiar sensation soothed his nerves. You can fight your way out of anything as long as no cunt brought a gun.
He couldn’t bank on it, though. Asa’s crew, Benito’s crew, Dante Pope’s crew—it didn’t matter, they’d never carried guns, but shit had changed in recent years. Hell, the last time Benito had seen Dante Pope he’d had a bullet in his foot. A bullet that had been there by Benito’s design.
Karma. It’s coming for you, bitch.
The BMW began to slow. Benito matched its pace, keeping his distance, then pulled into an unlit lay-by behind a lorry that had parked up for the night. Sliding the pole up his sleeve, he exited the car and ducked into the shadows, crouching, breath caged. His pulse clattered against his ribs as he hawk-eyed where the BMW had stopped. The occupants got out, scanning their surroundings, then disappeared into another faceless unit.
Benito let his breath go, momentarily dropping his guard as he tried to figure out what the hell they were doing. Another load? It seemed unlikely, unless Asa truly had moved into the Escobar leagues in Benito’s absence.
If he had, it made what Benito planned to do all the more dangerous. The bigger the load, the more powerful the buyer, and a higher chance the feds had eyes on the entire operation. Especially as Asa had already lost a crew to a sting in recent months.
Fuck. Once again, doubt and fear warred with the desperate desire to just finish this shit already. If Asa was moving a mother load and Benito could lift it unscathed, shift it on, and make his escape, he was done. Forever. As long as Asa kept his word and didn’t connect Benito’s sudden wealth with his own misfortune. Timing is everything.
The thought of sitting on a hundred grand for a month made Benito shudder, but he’d lived through worse endgames. I have to do this.
Activity ahead brought his attention back to the present. The men from the BMW emerged from the unit, laughing, and . . . eating huge slices of pizza.
Benito blinked hard, afraid the long hours without sleep and plenty of stress were getting to him. Then he saw the sign hanging over the door: Martinis Wholesalers. Dear fucking god. This crew of idiots had stopped to cadge the leftovers from the Italian incarnation of Costco.
Shaking his head, Benito slipped back to the Fiesta, listening hard as car doors slammed behind him, and the modified engine of the BMW purred to life.
He jammed the key into the ignition and turned it.
Nothing happened.
Not even a sputter.
He tried again and again until the engine gave a gurgle that let him know it was flooded. “Fuck!” Benito slammed his fist against the wheel, cold forgotten as sweat beaded his brow. Then he scrambled out of the Fiesta and his feet hit tarmac before he could stop to make sense of what he was doing.
He sprinted away, racing back to the concealed spot where his SUV lay waiting. His legitimate car that, in its current state, would trace back to him the moment anyone took note of it on any CCTV or traffic cameras. Idiot, idiot, idiot. But he couldn’t stop. Adrenaline consumed him, merging with the frantic need to finish the game. To find deliverance from a life that consumed his entire adulthood.
Benito ran and ran until he reached the SUV and threw the boot open, rummaging until he found the magnetic fake plates he’d kept for emergencies.
He slapped them on and hurled himself behind the wheel.
Gunning the engine, he peeled out of the hidden lay-by, only easing off when he spotted the lights of the BMW up ahead.
The BMW rejoined the A5 heading north. Benito followed, pipe still tucked up his sleeve, keeping a respectable distance until he took a chance and exited the main road a junction before the BMW.
If I don’t catch them, that’s it. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.
He would catch them, though. Leaving life to fate wasn’t his bag, but trouble laced the air, Benito could taste it. One way or another, someone was going home broke.
Benito motored along the back roads until he found the unlit and unmonitored country lane where he’d planned his attack. The SUV was a bigger vehicle to hide, but its matte black paint became one with the shadows.
He killed the lights, leaving the engine running, and folded the mirrors against the car, relying on the dark night to give away the approach of another vehicle. He slouched in his seat, watching, until the glare of headlights broke the blackness.
The BMW passed at the speed limit, then slowed to hug the bend. Benito took his chance. He flashed his lights on full beam and stamped on the accelerator, hurtling out of the shadows into the path of the BMW, but where others before had frozen in shock, Nino Moretti was ready for him.
He drove at Benito head on, then swerved at the last second, foot to the floor, the BMW’s powerful engine eating up the road at a speed that would’ve left the Fiesta in the dust.
But the SUV could handle it, and as loud as Benito’s gut screamed at him that a fucking car chase was the most boneheaded mistake he could make right now, he couldn’t stop.
He spun around, tyres squealing, and tore after the beamer, quickly gaining ground. Flat out, the BMW was a faster car, but it wasn’t built for tight bends and poorly surfaced country lanes.
It swung off the B road and pelted down a narrower track that cut across farmland, sliding through icy mud patches that Benito’s car mowed through with ease. Up ahead, derelict outbuildings loomed in the shadows, and debris from broken-down farm vehicles littered the roadside, signalling that they were on private land now.
Though there were no signs of occupation, the prospect of witnesses eased Benito’s foot from the gas—an instinctive reaction that gave Nino Moretti the split second he needed to burn away, widening the gap between them.
Benito floored the accelerator again, but a straight stretch of road had given the BMW the advantage. It roared away, leaving Benito in its wake, then killed its lights, concealing Moretti’s escape.