“Leave her,” Coke ordered Lloyd.
“But, sir—” Lloyd began.
Coke merely raised an eyebrow at him, and Lloyd nodded. “Right.” He lowered Cassidy none too gently to the ground right inside the door, glared at Gramps, and then turned around and left.
Gramps immediately wanted to go to Cassidy, put a pillow under her head, and tell her he was sorry and that she was going to be all right, but he forced himself to head back to the couch.
It took another hour, but at the end of those sixty minutes, Gramps had bought himself a woman. He’d planned to make an offer for Mario, too, but that was off the table, now that Coke assumed he was missing. So he’d negotiated for Cassidy and did his best not to worry about her son.
He assumed—and prayed—his disappearance was a result of Smoke’s intervention, but he had no way to verify that right now.
Haggling over Cassidy’s purchase made him want to shower, to get the feeling of betrayal off him, but it was done. She remained where Lloyd had left her, in a heap by the door, as if she was nothing more than a piece of property. Which, to the man in front of him, she was. He’d managed to talk Coke down to half a million dollars, which seemed an obscene amount of money. But even ten bucks would’ve been too much, because everything about this was so wrong. Buying a human being made Gramps want to throw up.
He didn’t let one ounce of what he was feeling show on his face.
It was time to end this. And end Coke once and for all.
Silverstone usually didn’t concern themselves with drug dealers. There were so many, and drugs were in such high demand—as soon as one dealer was dealt with, two more sprang up to take their place. Gramps had no doubt someone would take over Coke’s empire, one of his many lieutenants probably, but the FBI had relented and agreed to this mission because of Cassidy and her son.
Things would be chaotic in Coke’s organization after his death, and maybe in the meantime the Jamaican police could clean up their city. But drug addicts needed their fixes, and so the drugs would continue to flow into the States, coming from countries like Jamaica, China, Colombia, Mexico, and all over the globe.
Still, Gramps wasn’t going to let the hell Cassidy and her son had gone through be for naught. He was going to take Coke down, and take a lot of pleasure in doing so.
“I think we need to drink to our new partnership . . . and to lots of great sex in my future,” Gramps said, smirking. He pulled a flask out of the pocket of his jacket. Eagle—and an FBI connection—had come through in a huge way. On the way out of the hotel the night before, Eagle had handed him the flask and explained how it worked.
“I agree. What do you have there?”
“Tequila, what else?” Gramps asked.
Coke laughed. “You Mexicans and your tequila.”
“You Jamaicans and your rum,” Gramps retorted.
Coke nodded. “Good point.”
“Besides, I could drink a gallon of your rum and still be standing. Can’t say the same for you and my tequila.”
“You think so?” Coke asked.
“I know so,” Gramps said with confidence.
“Would you be willing to wager on that?”
Mentally, Gramps pumped a fist in the air. Hook, line, and fucking sinker. He had this asshole. “Fuck yes,” he said. “How much?”
“Two hundred thousand,” Coke said.
Gramps pretended to think about it before nodding. “Seems reasonable. But before we both get too shit faced to think straight, I need you to tell your staff that she’s mine.” Gramps nodded at a passed-out Cassidy on the floor. “The last thing I want is trouble from Lloyd, or to be stopped by any of your other men who want a shot at her.”
“Fair enough,” Coke said. He pulled out a phone and typed something. In less than a minute, Lloyd opened the office door.
“Sir?”
“Cassidy now belongs to G. When he leaves here later, he’ll be taking her with him.”
Gramps could easily see the disappointment and fury in the other man’s eyes.
“No one fucks with him. He’s taking her off our hands. She’s not our problem anymore. Understand?” Coke asked.
“Yes, sir,” Lloyd bit out.
“Good. That is all.”
Lloyd shot another glare at Gramps, then backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
“Now, you know I trust you,” Coke said, and Gramps almost snorted. The man didn’t trust him in the least, and the feeling was mutual. “But I’m going to have to insist that you take the first shot of your tequila. I wouldn’t want you to poison me or anything.”
Gramps pretended to be offended. “If I killed you, I wouldn’t get my drugs,” he protested.
“Even so,” Coke said firmly.
Sighing as if he was annoyed, Gramps grabbed two new shot glasses from the liquor cabinet. Making sure Coke had a clear view, he filled both glasses with tequila from his flask. He carried them to the couch and handed one to Coke. “To new partnerships,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast.
Coke eyed him for a moment, then nodded.
Gramps swallowed the tequila and barely felt the burn as it slid down his throat. When he was done, Coke didn’t flinch as he drank down his shot as well.
“That is good,” Coke said.
“Let the games commence,” Gramps told him.
The next hour was spent bantering and doing shots. Gramps poured Coke’s, and the drug kingpin prepared Gramps’s. The room was spinning slightly, but Gramps forced himself to be patient. This was it. The culmination of months of research by his team—and years of captivity for Cassidy.
Thinking about Cassidy made him remember the despair on her face when he’d stuck the needle into her flesh. He wanted to look over at her, but kept his eyes firmly on Coke.
They were both sprawled on the couch now. The flask Gramps had brought with him was empty. It was only a matter of time.
“You win, G,” Coke said grudgingly as he did his best to catch his breath. “Your tequila has . . . put me . . . on my ass.”
Gramps shrugged. “I’m not so good myself. How ’bout we call it a draw?”
“Sporting . . . of you,” Coke gasped.
It was the last thing the man would ever say. His body began to convulse as the potassium cyanide in the tequila did its job.
The flask Eagle had given him had two compartments. One with untainted alcohol, and the other with more than enough of the deadly compound to kill. Gramps had given Coke straight tequila for a while, loosening him up, allowing enough time to pass to make it look like he and Coke were getting along famously.
The last couple of shots he’d poured for Coke had been tainted. The other man had almost immediately succumbed to the drug.
Standing, Gramps hurried over to Cassidy. She hadn’t moved since she’d been dropped on the ground, and he prayed she really had been roofied, that he hadn’t given her something else. He pressed his fingers to her neck and sighed in relief when he felt a pulse.
He took a minute to quietly and surreptitiously speak close to the small microphone in his watch, knowing his team would hear him. “Coke’s dead. Go to plan D. I’m gonna walk right out the front door with Cassidy. Stand by.” They would’ve heard her freaking out, and everything that had transpired after that point.