Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
“Find Spittle’s son and bring him to me,” I order. Not quite no ammo. “And call Len. Advise him of the developments and tell him not to take his eyes off Spittle. Not even for a second.”
Ringo goes to his phone immediately, starting to pace up and down. James is still quiet. “Another drink?” I ask, undoubtedly interrupting him from planning what order he’s going to take Spittle’s limbs.
James says nothing and holds his glass toward Brad, who’s quick to top him up. “We need to find out when that safety deposit box was breached.” He looks at me, and I see the questions spinning in his warped mind. Finding out when that box was breached will also tell him how long The Bear has known that James, The Enigma, the man who has slaughtered dozens of his men is, in fact, Spencer James’s supposedly dead son. Or was, since James is supposed to be dead again. He’s survived two explosions. How many times can this man die and come back to life?
“I’m sure Spittle’s son will tell you if you ask him nicely,” I muse, assessing James’s persona, watching as he gets more strung by the second. “How’s Beau?” I need to distract him before he blows up and takes this office with him.
James frowns and looks across at me. “What?”
“Beau. How did it go with Doc?”
“Fine. She’s fine.” He returns his attention to the desk, back to seething. “How many men have I got to kill before I get to him?”
I blow out my cheeks and look at Otto. He’s thinking the same as me, which is, basically, Miami had better hold tight. “Drink,” I order, getting up, feeling like I need to stretch my legs. I go to the glass wall and check on Rose again. Tank hasn’t moved an inch, therefore Rose hasn’t either. There’s a magazine on the bar. I can’t see it from here, but I know what it is. They’re scattered all over our bedroom. “When’s Adams due?” I ask when Ringo’s finished on his mobile to Len.
“Just pulled up.”
I nod, my eyes still on Rose, hoping she keeps her back to the club. I don’t want her anywhere near Adams. It’s petty, especially for a man of my status, both in this world and in my wife’s world. I have no competition. Still, the previously bent politician’s dick has been inside my wife, and whether she enjoyed it or not, that fucking sucks. Being inside of her is nothing short of fucking heaven. I can attest to that. No man could ever forget it. Every man in their right mind would want more. My eyes narrow, my teeth naturally clenching, and I look toward the entrance of the club when I see someone enter out the corner of my eye. I let out a little puff of laughter, watching as Perry Adams, briefcase in hand, heavies to hand, walks across the club floor like the king he thinks he is. A brush with death—AKA me—obviously didn’t knock him down that peg for too long.
I watch him closely, not only to see if he clocks Rose at the bar, but to see if his famously roving eye even glances at any of the dancers parading around half-naked. His focus remains forward. I nod approvingly, taking some Scotch. Perry Adams looks composed.
Not for long.
I turn and find James still reeling in the chair, the desk before him about ready to crumble to cinders under his concentrated stare. “Ready?”
He inhales, slowly rising. The man is radiating fury. “Ready.” Another long slug of his drink before he strides to the door, Otto not far behind.
“Hold him in the club until we’ve moved to the downstairs office,” Brad says down the line as we follow. “Given the latest enlightenment, you still think Spittle doesn’t know who The Bear is?” he asks quietly.
“I can’t see it. Apparently, no fucker in this town knows who he is.” And isn’t that the most maddening thing. “I can’t imagine he’d disclose his identity to a retired FBI agent who’s got a mouth on him.”
“The son?”
I shake my head mildly, my eyes on James’s back. “I don’t know, but I guarantee you who’ll find out,” I say, taking the stairs.
“I want a front-row seat,” Brad grunts, his lip curling.
“Still holding that grudge?”
“Spittle, the prick, asked that mad fucker”—Brad’s finger comes up, motioning to James’s back—“to bump me off. So yeah, I want popcorn too.”
I laugh, eyes still on the mad fucker. With James around, I probably wouldn’t need to get my hands dirty ever again. But . . . well, I like getting my hands dirty. “Third time lucky,” I say quietly, entering the office.
“I need to associate with safer people,” Brad mutters, pushing the shelving unit closed behind us and going to his phone. “We’re good.”