“Your brother has a big mouth.” His eyes slide to Jaxon. “Might get him in trouble.”
Jax stiffens beside me. “Watch it, Lopez.”
“You watch it, Reyes.”
“This is my crew. You don’t like it, you’re welcome to leave. Go back to selling dime bags of black tar on street corners — we’ll be here moving bricks, surrounded by stacks of money, making the Kings so rich no one can touch us.”
“Stop running your mouth about our business,” Lopez roars, putting a hand on his holster. “This kid isn’t a King—”
“He will be,” Jaxon shouts, shooting me a look. “And he’s family. I trust him.”
“I don’t trust him.” Lopez strides forward, standing nose to nose with Jaxon. “And I don’t trust you. Not anymore.”
“What are you saying, Lopez?” Jaxon’s hand moves subtly toward the small of his back, where the base of a handgun juts from the waistband of his jeans. I inch backward, certain I’m about to be caught in the middle of a shootout.
Where the hell is the DEA?
They must have enough evidence to move in by now.
I try to think of something I can say to diffuse the tension in the room, to prevent the powder-keg of drug-fueled testosterone from exploding. Anything I say right now feels highly flammable. As liable to trigger an explosion as it is to prevent one.
“Look, Jax, I didn’t come here to cause you problems,” I murmur in what I hope is a diplomatic tone. “If it’s this big a deal for me to be here, I’ll just go—”
Lopez looks at me. “You’re not going anywhere, kid. No one is going anywhere.”
Fuck.
What was my extraction code, again?
Something about high tide…
My brain is a mess of static; my limbs feel stiff as plaster. In the myriad scenarios I ran with the DEA, this — Jaxon’s crew pulling a mutiny — was not one of them.
I can sense things going south rapidly. It’s only a matter of time before bullets start flying. I have no plans to be here, when that happens.
“Don’t threaten my little brother!” Jax’s fingers curl around his gun. “You’re out of line, Lopez.”
“What the hell is going on out here?” The question precedes the arrival of another man from the sleeping berths. Everyone turns to watch as the door swings open and he emerges, rubbing his eyes and yawning. His face is full of ill-temper. “I was trying to sleep! Who could rest with all this fucking racket—”
I use the momentary distraction of his arrival to inch backwards, toward the exit. Under my breath, I murmur the catchphrase I memorized this afternoon. The one that Pomroy and Stanhope promised would deliver salvation within ninety seconds.
“I think it’s almost high tide.”
I speak so lowly, I’m sure no one else can hear it over the volley of shouts firing back and forth across the room; so lowly, I’m worried the microphone embedded in my shirt can’t pick it up, either.
I don’t care.
I’m not waiting.
I’m getting the fuck out of here.
I take another step backward, toward the door — and hit a wall. Except it’s not a wall at all.
Walls don’t breathe.
I’d forgotten all about Cisco, the guard up on the bow.
He’s not on the bow, anymore. He’s standing directly behind me. Close enough to hear my murmured extraction code. Close enough to notice me edging toward the door unnoticed.
When I realize my fatal mistake, I don’t even have time to bolt for the exit — his arm is already banding around my neck, his full strength compressing my windpipe.
“What did you just say, kid?”
I choke out an unintelligible gasp.
The rest of the room falls silent as they all turn to look. Jaxon’s eyes go wide as he sees me in Cisco’s grip.
“Let him go,” he snaps, taking a step toward us. Drawing his gun. “I mean it, Cisco.”
“He was muttering something under his breath!” Cisco yells over my shoulder. “Did anyone check him for a wire?”
“No.” Lopez stalks toward us, murder in his eyes. “Let’s do that.”
Jaxon’s expression darkens. “Don’t be ridicul—”
He never finishes the word.
Because, in that moment, the loudest bang I’ve ever heard shakes the ship and the entire cabin explodes around us into a shower of debris. The air is no longer air — it is shards of glass, splinters of wood, scraps of metal. Every portal window shatters simultaneously, every overhead hatch rips clean of its hinges.
I drop to the floor as gas canisters fly through a gaping hole in the roof, spilling noxious fumes as they roll across the cabin floor. It’s instantly pitch dark. I cough against the burn in my throat, shielding my head as I hear the sound of gunfire behind me. The ceiling rattles as boots pound up the metal gangplank, a prelude to a fleet of arriving agents.
Unable to see more than two inches in front of my face thanks to the smoke-bombs, I crawl blindly in what I hope is the direction of the exit. I drag my body over broken glass, barely feeling the pain as I scramble toward air and light and safety. I almost make it, too. My hands hit the track of the sliding glass door that leads outside. I can practically taste freedom on my tongue.
Until a massive hand curls around my ankle and drags me back, into the darkness. Until two hands lock around my throat and begin to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, so hard I think my neck will snap.
I struggle, but it’s no use.
He’s too big.
Too strong.
I can’t get away.
Can’t move.
Can’t breathe.
My vision clouds over with stars. The stars turn black, spreading from my peripherals inward, darkening my entire visual field. The last thing I see before I lose consciousness is Lopez, looming over me like a demon straight from hell, vengeance burning in his eyes.
“You did this,” he hisses, squeezing even harder.
The last bit of fight leaves my body.
And then… the world goes dark.
THIRTY-THREE
josephine
I use my best penmanship, carefully inking each word on the thick, creamy stationary my parents’ secretary purchased for my sixteenth birthday.
Blair and Vincent,
I am your daughter.
Your child.
Your only offspring.
I have spent my entire life — every minute of every day for nearly twenty years — trying to win your love.
When I realized that was an impossibility, I downshifted my expectations. I thought, perhaps, if I worked hard enough, if I achieved academic success, if I won every contest, if I never stepped a toe out of line… I might one day win your affection. Your approval. At the very least, your grudging pride in all I have accomplished.
I see now, the flaw in my plan; the grave miscalculation under which I have been operating.
There is no use trying to win the hearts of people who do not possess them.
You cannot love me — you do not have the capacity for it. You look at me and see another corporate asset, an inanimate acquisition you can play to your advantage in the business world.
I forgive you for that.