Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Boss, we cleared the perimeter. Frenchies are watching the back and we’re on the front.”
“Good work,” Ronan says and glances at me. “Don’t call them Frenchies though.”
The kid winces and looks at me, eyes wide with sudden worry.
“Don’t worry, we Frenchies have long memories.” I flick my fingers at him and he runs off.
“Kid’s just on edge,” Ronan murmurs by way of apology.
“Can’t blame him.” I gaze out toward the road. It’s two minutes past the meeting time, but there’s still nobody coming. “We could be in the middle of a real fucking shitshow right now.”
“It could,” Ronan agrees, “but I have a feeling that’s not how this is going to go down.”
We make idle small talk—mostly about the city, about our wives, that sort of thing. Jean and Niall seem to get along fairly well, which is good. After a few more minutes, and checking in with my team at least twice, I’m beginning to think this was a waste of time.
Truck lights appear coming toward us.
We don’t move as three vehicles pull in. Out in the darkness, I can almost feel a couple dozen high-powered rifles trained on them, plus the three men with armor-piercing sniper rifles on the nearby roof. The engines remain running, but the doors open, and well-armed men pile out.
Dusan steps into the space between us and his soldiers.
For a moment, nobody moves. The last time I saw him, Dusan was on the first floor of my mansion throwing a grenade up at me. We nearly murdered each other that day, and I just barely slipped from his grasp.
I bet he wishes he’d finished me off.
“I almost didn’t show up,” Dusan says, sounding tired and angry. “But then I got a phone call. Guess who it was?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I say truthfully.
“It was Marco. Remember good old traitor fuck Marco? He told me that everything you were going to say was true, and that the Biancos would appreciate it if I listened. So that’s why I’m here. Go ahead and fucking talk. I’m going to listen, and then I’m going to get back in my truck and leave.”
I nod slowly and glance at Ronan. He looks grim and serious, every inch the crime lord prepared to do serious violence should the night call for it.
“Dusan, I want you to meet my grandfather. Former grandfather, actually, and really, not even my grandfather. I was adopted.” I gesture at Pascal who stares back at everyone. “He’s a bit glassy right now from the Fentanyl. I shot him in the knee last night.”
“I don’t give a shit about your family problems.” Dusan looks at Ronan. “What are you thinking, taking his side in all this? I always thought you were smarter than that.”
“Funny, I used to think the same about you,” Ronan says, completely deadpan.
“We’re here to offer you a trade,” I say, pulling Dusan’s attention back to me. “I’m offering you Pascal Moreau, and all I’m asking for is a truce in return. Pascal is the man that ordered your cousin’s killing. Pascal maneuvered me into a war I never wanted, and he was going to use both of us to further his ultimate goals in America.”
Dusan shakes his head the whole time I’m speaking. “It’s too late for that now. One old man, no matter how culpable, is not enough.”
“Pascal is worth millions. There are people in France that will happily pay for his return. He’s the perfect hostage. Think of him as a briefcase full of cash if you prefer.” I pause for a moment and let the idea settle in. “A very, very big briefcase.”
Dusan strokes his face. He considers for a moment, looking from me, to Pascal, and back again. The tension is heavy, and one wrong move could fill this night with bullets and death. Eventually, Dusan shakes his head. “I don’t know anyone in France.”
“I’ll give you the relevant people to speak with. You’ll get paid, Dusan.”
“What’s stopping me from ending this war myself?” he asks, glaring death at me. “What’s stopping me from finishing what I started?”
Ronan sighs like this is all so dramatic. “Julien is the carrot,” he says and gestures toward the fence. “And I’m the stick.”
Armed men step forward, melting into the light. Each of them is covered from head to toe in expensive and high-quality ballistic armor and carrying high-powered rifles. Dusan’s men raise their weapons, but Dusan himself holds out his hands to keep his men from starting a shooting match they will absolutely lose.
“Here I was thinking you really wanted a truce,” Dusan snaps, shoving the barrel of a nearby soldier’s gun down toward the ground. “Tell your men to stand down.”
Ronan gestures again, and his people melt back into the night.
It’s impressive. Honestly, really impressive. A little less so, since I know they practiced that fucking maneuver for like an hour earlier, but still. Dusan’s probably shitting himself.