“Shut the fucking door.”
I hear the undeniable sound of the safety of a gun disengaging, and I still, a sick smile creeping across my lips. I slowly shut the door and turn to face him. He’s standing now, his arms braced. “What do you know?” he asks.
“I know Spittle talks too much.”
“And what has he said?”
“Small things here and there that built a rather vivid picture.”
“Like?”
“Tenses. Past and present. Spittle seems to get clumsy with those. So if I were you, I’d ask myself who else he’s got clumsy with and why he’d want you dead.”
I take the door handle and back out, leaving Brad Black with my bombshell. “You can text me the address of where I’m taking my girlfriend.”
“I don’t have your number,” he says, just as his phone rings in his pocket. He reaches in, looking at the screen as he pulls it out. His eyes fly to mine, his face screaming disbelief.
“Good to meet you, Brad.” I pull the door closed and stalk through the club, and Otto is by my side in a beat, his eyes watchful.
“What the fuck’s going on?” he asks, flanking me.
I keep my eyes forward. Always forward, because if I look back at this point, I’ll lose my focus. I need my focus.
“I’ve just resurrected the dead.”
67
JAMES
The address is a mansion in Miami. She’s still settled. No more episodes, no restlessness, no extra medication needed. I made sure Doc is aware that this is a full-time position until Beau’s fully recovered, and he didn’t argue. I’m doing him a favor, both in time and cash.
I leave the swanky, over-the-top room and pull the heavily engraved wooden door shut behind me, backing into the corridor, where abstract art hangs between every one of the dozens of doors. Goldie and Otto are waiting for me.
“I don’t like it here,” Otto mutters.
“Why? Because your pierced, bearded mug looks out of place surrounded by all this fancy shit?” Goldie asks on a laugh.
He grimaces and glances up and down the corridor. “Where the fuck are we, anyway?”
I head off, nodding to Ringo, the guy who was here to meet us a few hours ago. He’s an ugly fucker with a nose bigger than my apartment block and skin with more craters than the moon. He grunts and nods in return, and Goldie gives him a sideways glance.
“You could fit Miami up one of those nostrils,” she mutters as we take the marble staircase down to the foyer.
“I’ll let that slide because you’re a girl,” Ringo calls, his face poker straight.
Goldie comes to a grinding halt on the stairs, her face murderous as she glares at him, her nostrils flaring. He winks at her. It’s the worst thing he could do.
“Who are all these men?” she asks, stomping on, taking in numerous men in various positions.
Men. That’s exactly what they are. Men we need. Surviving the deadly world I’ve put myself in with only Goldie and Otto at my back was easy when it was just us. Now there are too many enemies. Now, there isn’t only us three. I need an army to win this war. And I’ve found one.
“Where’s Lawrence?” I ask, knowing Beau will ask after him as soon as she comes round. I had to bring him, not only because he’s an utter mess, but for Beau.
“Unpacking in his room.”
I head to the right at the bottom of the stairs as instructed and approach the double doors. More heavily carved wood. And here we are.
I do what’s right and knock before I push my way in, but I don’t find who I’m expecting. Spittle looks up fast, his eyes rooting to my face, taking in every bit of me. “Who the fuck are you?”
I can only smile. “Be careful,” I murmur. “Haven’t you heard that looking me in the eye turns you to dust on the spot?”
He frowns. Then every muscle in his face seems to give up, his expression falling. “Fuck, no.”
I take myself to the sofa and lower as Otto closes the door and takes up position with Goldie. “Isn’t it nice to put a face to the name?” I ask. He takes a sip of his drink—a big sip—as I cock my head. “Are you nervous, Spittle?”
He laughs, uneasy. “Christ alive, I’m sitting in The Brit’s old mansion with another deadly Brit. What do you think?” He gets up and starts pacing, taking regular swigs of his Scotch.
I can feel Otto staring at my profile, and I turn my eyes onto him, my lips straight. He shakes his head in disbelief. “What the fuck are we doing in a dead mob boss’s mansion?” he asks.
I don’t answer him. He’ll find out soon enough. Returning my attention to a pacing Spittle, I follow him up and down by the window a few times before I get bored of watching him go back and forth. “Will you sit the fuck down?” I say curtly. He’s across the room in a heartbeat, his arse on the couch.
“Did you . . .” he stutters. “Have you . . .”
“Killed Brad Black?” I ask. “Yes. He’s about as dead as The Brit.”
Eyes like saucers, Spittle struggles to his feet. “I think it’s time for me to go.”
“Sit the fuck down,” I shout, my fingers clawing into the arm of the couch to restrain myself. He drops like a stone to his arse, just as the door swings open and a guy appears, a young bloke, with dark eyes that contradict his pale blond hair. “Nolan,” Spittle says, rising from the couch again, out of respect I expect, since I’ve just told him to sit the fuck down.
“Thanks for coming, Spittle.” The guy, Nolan, grins at him, before takes me in, his broad chest lifting ever so slightly. “So what do we call you?” he asks, a sardonic smile on his face. I hear Otto huff his displeasure, and I roll my eyes.
I stand and, again, do what’s right. This guy, albeit young, maybe mid-twenties, works for Brad Black. There’s a reason for that. “James,” I answer, offering my hand.
He strides over and takes it, his assessment of me never wavering. “And everything meets your expectations?” he asks, motioning in the general direction of the house.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Your woman will be safe.” As he utters the words, a couple more men appear at the door, Ringo and another, who I’m yet to officially meet. And someone else emerges between them. A woman. A middle-aged lady with a friendly face and warm smile. “And cared for,” Nolan adds, smiling fondly at the woman. “This is Esther.”
She approaches and offers her hand. “Danny Black was my son.” Her British accent is as soft as her features. Was my son. “Anything you need, please, just ask.”
“Thank you.”
“British,” she says, smiling, truly pleased. “We’re taking over Miami, it seems.”
“We?”
Her lips purse, though she’s still smiling. “And what do I call you?”
“The Enigma,” Spittle calls, and we all cast interested looks his way. “Why’s everyone so fucking cool about the company we’re in?”
“Found your way around again soon enough, didn’t you?” Nolan says, looking at him like the piece of shit we all know him to be. “Bet you thought I’d asked you here for some help to find Brad’s killer.”