“Fuck!” Brad yells, stomping back to his desk and dropping to the chair.
Indeed, fuck. Prompt payment equals prompt delivery, and we can’t fucking deliver on time.
“Problem, Boss?” Nolan asks as I collect up the bags and take them to the safe.
“Yes, this should be in the fucking safe,” I grumble. “You’re really on bad form today, Nolan.”
“I was just getting to it, I swear, but then—”
“Your brain fell into your dick.” I throw the bags into the safe and slam the door, spinning the dial. “How about I slash your cock off and solve this problem for us all.”
His hand falls over his crotch as he steps back. “Easy, James,” he says, looking injured.
Fuck me, I can’t be angry with him, and that just makes me angrier. “Get the fuck out of here.”
Nolan bolts, and I see Brad looking at the endless piles of paperwork on his desk. He scowls. “All this”—he motions to the mess—“is too much for Nolan to handle on his own. The club, the money, the security—”
“The dancers and employees,” I muse, taking a seat on the couch.
Brad lifts his eyes but not his head. “The dancers and employees,” he agrees. “I need to hire him some help now I’m a little distracted. Someone we can trust.”
“Got anyone in mind?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Who?”
“B—”
“Forget it.”
“Or Rose,” he adds.
I’m laughing again. “You think Danny will even entertain the idea? She’s pregnant, or did you miss that?”
“It’s the perfect solution. He, or you, if you’ll give me Beau, will know exactly where they are at all times.” He shows the ceiling his palms. “It’s a win-win for us all.”
I narrow one eye, considering it for a moment. Just a moment. “Absolutely not.”
“You can’t speak for Danny.”
I laugh. “Wanna bet?”
“Fine.” Brad gathers up some of the papers and stacks them to the side. “It’s a crying shame.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, feeling my phone vibrate in my pocket. I lift my arse off the seat and pull it out, seeing a text message from . . . I recoil.
“I pay well, and the perks are great.”
I look up slowly and tiredly, and he grins like a twat. “No.” I get up and start a slow pace of the room, staring down at my phone and the unopened text message from Beth, wondering what she wants. Stupid question. It’s been months since I last made her fantasy a reality with her husband. In fact, the last time was the day I met Beau. I need to let them know I’m no longer in the game. Or that game, anyway.
“What’s up?”
I clear my screen, telling myself I’ll deal with her later, and face Brad. “Nothing.” My phone rings, and I hold it up.
“The Mexicans?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He cringes, looking across to the safe where I just stored their money, and technically it is still theirs and will be for a while longer. Not a great position to be in.
I answer with silence. It’s a habit. “You received my money,” Luis says, as I click it to loudspeaker so save me the hassle of reiterating the conversation to Brad.
“It’s early,” I say.
“I need my order sooner. The twentieth.”
I shoot my eyes to Brad who closes his in despair. “May I ask why?”
“A private war this side of the border,” he says, blasé. “I must ensure we’re sufficiently armed.”
“That’s a Saturday, Luis. A weekend.”
“You can do earlier?”
“No, we can’t do earlier. We have a Coast Guard training day that’s causing issues with our delivery.”
“Let me spell it out for you, as I fear you’re not sensing my urgency. I have reliable intel that’s informed me of an intended attack on my compound. I must act first, therefore I need my order by the twentieth. I’m sure this isn’t a problem, is it?”
“Not at all,” I say coolly, and Brad’s eyes snap open. I shrug. We have to find a way around this or we can add the Mexicans to the Irish, Poles, and Russians, all of which, albeit silent at the moment, want us dead. “I’ll be in touch with the plans.” I hang up and start to pace, thinking.
“And how are we going to solve this little conundrum?” Brad asks. “Chaka’s not delivering until Monday. The order was already going to be late.”
“Yes, I know, Brad. I did the math.” I drop to the couch, tapping the side of my head with my mobile. “We can sort the guns in a day.”
“We won’t have any guns to sort.”
“We will if Chaka meets the original delivery date.”
“How do you propose shipping half a million dollars’ worth of firearms through dozens of Coast Guard boats and crew?”
I squint, thinking. “Leave it with me.” I punch out a message to Chaka telling him we have to take the guns on the nineteenth and we’ll pay him a bonus and not kill him. He answers quickly with a smiley face.
This fucking deal isn’t going to be worth doing soon, what with discounts and bonuses. But making money we do not need isn’t the purpose of this deal. Smoking the Russians out is the purpose of this deal. And yet the exchange is creeping closer, has been set up for weeks, and there’s still been no sight nor sound from them. Of course, the whole criminal web is undoubtedly regrouping and restructuring after the demise of so many significant members, but we know The Ox, Sandy, and Volodya are still breathing. It was the Poles and Irish that bore the brunt of our killing spree, all in the name of finding The Bear. Slimy arsehole. We won’t get it wrong next time. Not that Perry Adams didn’t deserve to die. Every man who fell victim to us deserved to die, so it’s not a total loss. The world is less a few pieces of shit.
But The Bear? He isn’t just a piece of shit. He’s the king of shits. The puppet master. The man who is the root of Beau’s injuries and my baby’s death. I blink back the dark spots in my vision. Swallow down the burning anger rising.
Fuck.
I wander over to the drinks cabinet and pour a vodka.
“All right?” Brad asks tentatively as I neck the lot, hoping the liquid will cool the fury brewing. It’s been a while since I’ve felt the rage that used to rule me.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat and look down at my mobile when it rings again. “Higham,” I say quietly, looking up at Brad.
“What the fuck does that FBI prick want?”
Good fucking question. The last time I saw him, he let me walk free after Beau’s ex-boyfriend cop, Oliver Burrows, arrested me for the murder of Agent Frank Spittle. It didn’t go down very well with Burrows, and it didn’t go down all too well with me to find out I was being followed by The Hound after Higham let me walk free. I smile, remembering that Polish fucker’s tattooed face the moment before the grenade I’d bowled under his vehicle blew up. He thought he’d got The Enigma. Idiot.
I answer my mobile and hit the loudspeaker icon. “Black’s not answering.” Higham says, getting straight to the point.