“Arms? At the fire station?”
“Safest place to keep it away from anyone who shouldn’t have them. Better than any lockbox.” He snorts.
“I’m staying here.”
“Alaska—”
“I can’t wait, Holt.” Not when my heart crumbles into dust under the pressure of the massive fist squeezing it, fingers of dread digging in till it threatens to rip me apart at the seams. “Things like this can go down in seconds. If I wait for backup, Felicity could be dead.” I take a deep breath. “Get here as soon as you can. I’ll buy some time, but I have a feeling we’ll need help getting out of this.”
“Got it. Stay safe, man.”
“I’ll try.”
I hang up the phone, pitch it onto the seat, and straighten out my Jeep before easing it up to the back of the building. There’s no rear entrance, but there’s that Employees Only exit in the side alley.
It shouldn’t be too hard to pick the lock, and failing that, there are cruder ways inside.
I park the Jeep as quietly as I can and slip out to dig around in the back. My go bag.
For the briefest second, I smile. Felicity was so impressed, way back at the lake, because I already had a full wetsuit and scuba gear ready to go.
She never knew what else I had locked and loaded.
Two sleek pistols and several clips. Berettas, heavy and cool in my palms.
I check the clips, check the firing mechanisms, make sure they’re good and ready. I always keep my guns maintained, but the last thing I’m risking right now is a weapon failing to discharge in a firefight.
It takes me less than thirty seconds.
Thanks, SEAL training.
It may be the only time I’ve ever been grateful that underneath the skin of an easygoing dad, I’m a machine trained for war. I just hoped I’d never have to use these skills again after the last time I bailed out my boss during his dustup in the ghost town.
Whatever it takes.
Whatever I have to do if it means keeping Fliss safe, bringing her home, tasting her lips, and drinking them for life.
The hard part’s staying calm enough to do my damage with no slipups in the state I’m in.
I strap the Berettas in their holsters under my arms, tighten the buckle, then nudge the back of the Jeep shut and glide into the alley on silent feet.
Hold on, Fliss.
Hold the fuck on.
Don’t do anything reckless.
I’m coming.
I’m coming, baby, and you’re gonna be okay.
You’re gonna be safe, you’re gonna be mine, and you’re never gonna face a bad day alone ever again.
25
Purer Than Gold (Felicity)
Hooray for miracles.
It’s definitely a miracle of Biblical proportions that I don’t drop dead of a heart attack when I hear the nearing rumble of engines.
Part of me hopes it’s a late-night customer.
Paisley wouldn’t dare murder me in front of an innocent bystander, would she?
...Ha.
How cute, me thinking that.
Back in reality, she’d cut me open and make that person watch, then shoot them in the head and sit there filing her sparkly pink nails while her goons dispose of our bodies.
If it’s a customer, I have to get rid of them ASAP.
Wrong place, wrong time doesn’t begin to describe what any randoms would be walking into tonight.
But I can’t tell where the noise is coming from.
The glare from my store’s lights reflecting on the windows blocks my view. All I can see is two sets of headlights that cut off, leaving nothing but ominous darkness and my own sickly reflection staring back at me.
Even in the glass, my face looks white with fear, this pale oval hovering near the register.
I’m suddenly freezing, ice-cold with terror sweat.
God.
I just have to hope this plan of mine actually works.
It’s simple enough—I mean, as simple as taking out a whole crew of soulless killers can be.
Just get them inside.
Bait them into the back.
Spring the trap.
The gold waits, right there, begging them to go for it.
Of course, the shelves are rigged.
If I pull that cord, it’ll slip the pin just barely holding everything in place, and hundreds of pounds of gold will come tumbling down in an avalanche of blunt force trauma, giving them all the money they wanted in a way they never asked for—plus some stabby shrapnel from my big glass growler jugs for good measure.
Maybe if I’m lucky, a shard of glass will pierce a certain someone’s femoral artery or jugular or something.
I’m not out for blood.
Not really.
I’m not sure I can live with murder on my conscience, even in self-defense, self-preservation.
Still, I want to make sure they’ll regret this and never consider coming for me again—and realistically, that means they can’t survive this. If I even survive it.
They call it blood money for a reason, don’t they?
I’ve just got to make sure I’m not the only one who’s bleeding over it.
Not the hell anymore.
It’s eerily quiet now. With those headlights out front going dark, I can’t see anything.
That makes it even more unnerving not being able to tell what’s going on out there—who’s in the cars, who’s getting out of them, why there are two vehicles to start with.
Paisley’s being practical, I tell myself. Bringing extra help to haul the gold away.
Maybe some kind of criminal specialist to help make sure my body disappears that much faster.
I shake my head. Stop thinking like tha—
I nearly scream as the bell over the door jingles.
The most familiar sound of my life, what used to be a comfort.
Tonight all I hear is an angel of death, shaking those bells like a demented tambourine.
I brace for Paisley, her goons, blazing guns, and imminent doom.
What I’m not expecting to see is the single man who pulls the door open and walks inside, his sallow face curled into a sneer.
Huh?
He looks familiar, but I don’t know him.
Where have I seen this guy before—
Oh.
Wait.
The police station. What feels like forever ago. The drunk tank.
Isn’t this the guy Alaska got in a brawl with at the gas station after he came snooping around the cabin and stole a couple gold bars?
The guy Alaska said blamed him for everything wrong in his life after they’d both had a bad run in business?
Gavin Coakley.
He’s...definitely not who I expected.
I don’t know. There’s something about him that weirds me out, something unclean and unwholesome, but what makes me nervous right now is the fact that I’m alone in my coffee shop with a strange man who’s much larger than me and none too friendly.
He also has the worst timing in the universe.
If I don’t get him out of here, stat, he’ll get in the way of my trap. I also hate that he’s looking at me like he wants something stronger than hot coffee.
My stomach tightens. “I’m sorry, sir, but as the sign says, we’re cl—”
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it,” he snarls.
That’s when I hear the click of a gun’s safety.