Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
“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.