I balk, as does everyone else in the room. “You’re kidding, right?” I splutter.
“Nope.”
“Fucking hell, I think I preferred Adams.” Tom Hayley? Jesus, the man is an egomaniac. And, worse, he hates James and me, so I can only see this going one way. A headache. And we can’t kill the fucker because . . . well, he’s Beau’s father. “Anything else that’ll excite me?” I ask.
I can tell by James’s face another bombshell is coming. “We need to change the delivery date of the next shipment to the Mexicans.”
“Why?” Brad asks, rather than informing James that it isn’t an option. Because James wouldn’t elect to change anything if it wasn’t necessary. You do not alter the terms of a giant arms delivery the day after half the payment is in your possession. It’s not good form, and it also provokes mistrust. The last thing we need is the Mexicans on our backs.
“The Coast Guard has an annual training day on the day Chaka was due to deliver. We need to push to the Monday.”
“Shit,” I breathe. “That’s the day the Mexicans want their haul.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Ringo mutters.
“Great,” Otto sighs. “So . . . who’s talking to the Mexicans?” he asks, pointing to the straws on the drinks cabinet.
“I am not drawing straws.” Brad laughs. “I’m about as good at drawing straws as Danny is at poker.” He gets up and pours two Scotches, bringing one to me. I accept, if only to avoid inciting worry, but I won’t be drinking it.
“I’ll talk to Luis,” I say, looking down at the tumbler in my grasp. “We’ll compensate him.”
“How?”
“A discount.”
“Even more?” Brad looks at my untouched drink, undoubtedly wondering why it remains untouched when I’m clearly in need of it.
“Any other suggestions?”
“So when’s the next lot of cash arriving at Hiatus to be cleaned?” he asks, giving me my answer. There is no other way. We need to sweeten the deal, even fucking more than it’s already been sweetened. “I need to tell Nolan.”
“I’ll talk to Luis. We’ll rearrange the exchange and I’ll let you know.” I set the glass down, glad to be rid of the weight. “Now—”
“I have more,” James says, pulling my attention his way. What the fuck else could have happened in the last twenty-four hours that I’ve missed? “An article was released online this morning.” He goes to his phone. “By Natalia Potter.”
“A journalist, I presume,” Ringo grunts as he holds his hand out, taking James’s phone. His lip curls more with each word he reads. “The fuck?” His wide eyes find James.
“Yes, the fuck,” James says quietly, making everyone in the room go to Ringo and huddle around, trying to find out what’s got his shocked attention. I don’t join them. One, because I can’t bend, and two, because I have a feeling I know what it’s about. “She details the story of two men.” James looks at me.
“Something tells me they’re not law-abiding citizens,” I muse, eyeing the Scotch. I know I can drink a good few glasses and not be affected. For fuck’s sake, I’ve been drinking the stuff since I was twelve. But for Rose? Self-control. “What does it say?”
“Exactly?” Ringo asks, and I narrow my eyes. “Okay, and I quote,” he goes on, returning his attention to his phone. “‘Notorious criminal Danny Black, widely known as The Brit, and the man dubbed The Enigma, who is rumored to have murdered Detective Jaz Hayley, are causing chaos in Miami, and it would appear the police and FBI are powerless to stop them.’” Ringo shifts uncomfortably. “End quote.”
“What about me?” Brad grunts, looking as indignant as fuck. “I don’t get a mention?”
“Shut up, you girl,” Goldie mutters, taking herself back to the other couch, her eyes on James. “You okay?” she asks him.
“Fine.” He’s thoughtful, his eyes on his feet. Thinking.
“The journalist’s source?” I ask.
“Anonymous.” James looks at me. “To everyone else.”
But to us, this is a plain poke from him. A way to smoke us out. Get us back in Miami. The police can’t touch either of us, we know that. He knows that. This is becoming more about ego than anything else. A game. James can prove he didn’t kill Beau’s mother, and if the police had anything on me, I’d already be caged. That article is The Bear’s way of telling us he’s in contact with Potter. “Find out where she is,” I say, but Otto is already on his phone. It prompts me to make a call myself.
“Agent Higham,” he says in answer, sounding somewhat cautious. I don’t know why he declared his name. Perhaps to remind me that he is, in fact, FBI.
“Higham,” I say, letting everyone else in the room know who I’m calling. “I’ll be back in Miami soon. We should catch up for a coffee.”
“An invite to your wedding and now coffee? Anyone would think you’re trying to get me in your pocket, Black.”
“You wouldn’t fit,” I retort, and he laughs. “There are a few things we need to discuss.”
“Rumor on the street is you’ve retired.”
I smile, looking at the others. All of them have a familiar thirst in their eyes. All except Goldie. She looks plain pissed off because she, more than any of us, wanted to walk away. And now she can’t. Or, more to the point, she refuses to. She won’t leave James’s side. So, yeah, she’s pissed. When I thought we’d ended The Bear, I didn’t walk away thinking we were done. I walked away knowing we weren’t. It’s like I said to James one time—if you set the bar, you defend it.
Or you die.
We’ve set the bar, and I’m damn determined to defend the fucker. The alternative isn’t an alternative. The bunker we built at the boatyard wasn’t a temporary solution. James can never walk away from The Enigma. I can never walk away from The Brit. With a reputation comes a responsibility—a responsibility to stay alive and keep your loved ones safe. You can’t turn your back on this life, and that’s a lesson James and I have both learned. We have to continue dealing if we want to stay alive. We need to keep control of Miami. The alternative won’t just be messy. It’ll be the end. That was fact before we found out The Bear’s still alive. The Russians are still out there, and that was enough to keep us in the game. Now? Now we finish a job that’s annoyingly dragging out. It’s simple. But complicated.
So rumors are circulating. Retired? If only it was as simple as hanging up my gun. My knife. Or my letter opener. “Rumors are usually just that,” I say, resting my weight on the cabinet again. There are going to be a lot of disappointed people if that’s the case, but more fool them for assuming. Nothing should be assumed in this world. “I’m sorry to disappoint.”
“I’m not disappointed, Danny.”
Oh, we’re on first name terms now, are we? Interesting. So is the fact he’s not disappointed. “That’s nice to hear, Harry.” I wander over to the chair behind my desk and lower into it gingerly, my curiousness superseding the discomfort. “I was about to offer my condolences.”