Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
“Jesus,” Danny breathes. “He really wants his money.”
I hum. “And he needed the Russians and Mexicans to want us dead if he was going to get his virgin back, hence he killed their men and framed us.”
“Waste of his fucking time,” Danny mutters. “Sandy and Luis want us dead without that added incentive.”
“Maybe, but it’s an effective incentive, yes? A good way to renew the hatred.”
“I suppose. And the hitman at the club?” James asks. “King?”
“No, I think it was Sandy who sent him. But not to kill Pearl. What use is Pearl to King if she’s dead?”
James’s frown is impressive. “What? Sandy sent someone to abduct Pearl? Why?”
“Sandy needs King’s guns, but he doesn’t trust him. No one does. I think he was going to use Pearl as a bargaining chip to get his arsenal.”
“Fuck,” Danny breathes.
“Do we know if Anya told Sandy about Brad and Pearl yet?” James asks Otto.
“She told him,” he says, holding Anya’s phone up. “By text.”
“What does it say?” I ask, getting up, my heart banging.
“That she’s sleeping with The American.”
“So why wouldn’t Sandy tell King?” James asks.
“Because Pearl’s worthless to King if she’s not worth one hundred million. Sandy needs King to have some skin in the game.”
“Jesus Christ,” Danny breathes. “And now King’s got two-hundred-million-dollars’ worth of skin in the game, and he has Nolan, plus he doesn’t need to do business with the Russians and Mexicans.”
I stare forward, thinking. That’s a lot of enemies to make.
“But, again,” Danny continues. “What does it matter to King if Pearl’s not a virgin anymore? He’s bagging a cool two hundred million.”
I don’t know why it would matter to King, but something tells me it would. And to Danny’s point, why didn’t King just take money from Sandy for the guns if that’s all he’s interested in? Because it wouldn’t have been two hundred million? I sink into my chair, uneasy. “There’s not a chance in hell I’m taking Pearl to the exchange,” I say quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear me. Like Sandy, I don’t trust that fucker King. “Has Sandy tried to contact Anya?”
“Yeah, he’s tried.” Otto replies. “Texts and calls.”
“Should we reply?” Danny asks.
“No,” I say resolutely. “Anya was spooked, hence she ran. She could have called Sandy to say she’s leaving. She might not have had time. As far as Sandy’s aware, she could have simply bailed. I don’t want him to know that we’ve exposed her.”
“Fucking hell, I need to eat,” Danny moans, holding his aching head as he leaves the office, James not far behind, going to get their stew. And to appease the FBI agent who’s dropped by.
But Otto remains on the couch. He looks at me, jerking his head, prompting me to go over. “Can you see what I can see?” he asks, as I study the footage of Nolan with him.
“I see it.”
“And this,” he says, switching the screen.
Fuck, yeah, I see it. “Thanks. Get Leon to clean the mess up.” I get my phone out and make a call. He answers fast, as I knew he would. “Are you on your way?” I ask, following the others.
“Just looking for my American passport.”
I smile. “I’m having a welcome party for you.”
“Shall I bring a bottle?”
“Bring a crate.”
61
PEARL
* * *
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I release it, tentatively letting go of the chair and taking cautious steps toward the edge of the terrace with no support, no one to hold me up. I feel like someone is constantly stabbing at my lung with a fork, the pain cutting. I watch as the glass gets closer and at the same time seems to get farther away, each step more painful than the last. “Come on,” I say through gritted teeth, pushing the pain back because, really, it’s nothing compared to what I’ve endured in the past. Nothing at all. I bite down harder on my back teeth, holding my side, my face screwing up. It’s not nothing. It’s everything. My pain now feels more acute, more real. Now, I have every reason to fight for relief. To not curl up into a ball and give up. To numb myself. Hide. I have something to live for again. I can’t be weak. “I can do it.” I stretch my hand out, trying to reach the rail.
Nearly there.
Just a few more steps.
“The fuck?”
I jump, hiss with pain, and fall forward, missing the rail. Brad catches me, just before I face-plant the glass. “Ow,” I whisper, clenching his forearms as he eases me upright.
“I’ll give you fucking ow,” he mutters grumpily, slipping his arm under my knees and scooping me up. It hurts to get my arm around his neck, too, and my newly cast arm feels like lead where it rests on my chest. But my view?