Sasha’s all that matters.
Tears sting my eyes as I look away. I can’t stomach the sight of him. Not ever, but especially not right now.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper when he pulls his hand away.
“I know,” he says. “But I am going to, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because none of my other lessons ever stuck with you,” he says, putting his arm around me once more. “Maybe this is the one you will remember.”
Chapter Eighteen
“So let’s go over the plan one more time.”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard Three sound quite as serious before as he does right now, saying those words. So let’s go over the plan one more time. Never mind the fact that we’ve been through the plan a dozen times already, that we’ve analyzed and assessed every possible fucking scenario short of a hoard of goddamn Storm Troopers bursting in. Even the words nuclear weapons have been brought up. But yet, Three wants to go through the plan again, one more time, just to be on the safe side.
This girl of his from the club must have some real good pussy for him to be so concerned about all of us making it out of this… including her.
“I’ll head to Brighton Beach and keep an eye on the house. Lexie should be on her way to the party with Aristov right about now. She’s going to signal me when she finds the kid—flash a light or something. If she doesn’t signal, I’m going to assume the kid’s not in the house.”
The others mumble in agreement.
“I’ll ring you all when she signals,” Three continues. “You’ll hit the club, full-on ambush, at eight o’clock, whether she signals or not. Lexie said she’d make sure the keys to the basement were left on the bar in Aristov’s office, but the key to the chain, well, he keeps that on his person…”
“I can pick the lock,” Five chimes in. “Not a problem.”
“And I’ll keep on watching the house,” Three says. “Probably won’t take him long to be alerted to what’s happening—a few minutes, at most, but it should be enough time for you to get Morgan out. If he leaves, I’ll warn you he’s on his way. Lexie’s going to try to stay behind… chances are, if you’re hitting his club, he’s not going to be worried about her… so she’ll grab the kid and meet me outside once he’s gone, and then we’ll all meet up.”
Once again, the others mumble in agreement.
It’s a nice little plan, barring nothing goes wrong, but that’s the problem with plans like this: something always does. People don’t act like you expect them to, things don’t happen the way you hope, and all it takes is one little hiccup before nobody fucking knows who’s doing what anymore.
“All right, let’s do this,” Three says, standing up, the rest of the guys joining him on their feet. They say their goodbyes, hyping themselves up, nothing short of fucking chest-bumps as they go separate directions, ready to get this all started.
Sighing, I shove up off of the couch, getting to my feet, and stroll out of the living room behind them.
I leave this shit to them… the planning. They’re good at it, at orchestrating schemes, timing shit to work to our advantage. It doesn’t mean I’m not in charge, though, and they know it. They still yield to me at every turn. All I have to say is ‘no’ and it’ll come to a screeching halt.
I don’t say a word.
Not now. Not yet.
I’ve got a bad feeling about it all, though.
Something’s not right.
But I sure as fuck don’t have a better idea, so I’ll go with theirs until we hit a roadblock, and then I’ll do what I’m best at doing—making shit up.
“You want me to drive your car, boss?” Five asks.
I hesitate, pulling out my keys, before tossing them to him. Why not?
I climb in the passenger seat, relaxing back, as we head south out of Queens, down into Brooklyn, making our way to Brighton Beach. We branch out different directions when we reach the area, Three making his way toward Aristov’s house near the shoreline while the rest of us head to Limerence.
It’s dark out, nighttime falling by the time we reach the club. We pull in down the block, parking as close as we can get, as the car carrying the rest of the guys parks across the street.
Five cuts the engine as I glance at the clock.
7:21 p.m.
Thirty-nine minutes to go.
Five glances at me. “You think this is going to work?”
“Which part?”
“Any of it.”
Five might be the most cynical guy on my crew. Highly suspicious. He listens to his gut on everything, but the problem with his gut is it’s all twisted up, making him a paranoid son of a bitch. I appreciate that about him, though. He won’t sugarcoat or bullshit.
“It could work,” I say. “Probably won’t, though.”
He frowns. “I don’t think so, either.”
“You got any other ideas?”
“None that won’t get half of us killed.”
“Same here.”
“Might come to that,” he says. “Only option might be guns blazing, whole shebang, a lot of people dead.”
“I won’t let it,” I say, reaching into my pocket, pulling out my tin. Empty. Damnit. Still haven’t gotten around to rolling any joints. “I won’t let this take you guys down. It’s my fight, not yours.”
“Bullshit,” Five says, cutting his eyes my way as he pulls out a small bag of weed and a glass bowl, offering it to me. “No offense, but seriously... that’s bullshit.”
I take his weed, because fuck it... I need the relief.
“Before you came along, we were castoffs,” he continues as I pack the bowl and snatch up a lighter from the center console, inhaling the smoke when I light it. “Me? Not enough Italian blood for the Italians, yet too goddamn Italian for everyone else. And Declan, nobody would have a damn thing to do with a pretty rich boy from Midtown who wanted to do this for the thrill. We’re the fucking Island of Misfit Toys. So I think I can speak for the rest of the guys, too, when I say your fight is our fight. You gave us a chance to prove ourselves. We’re not going to punk out now when you need us for something. That would just prove everyone right who said we were worthless.”
I pass the bowl back to him, saying nothing, staring straight ahead at the club. There’s nobody coming or going, I notice.
I glance at the clock.
7:33 p.m.
Twenty-seven minutes to go.
Nothing yet from Three, either.
Bad, bad feeling...
I watch in silence for a few more minutes, as Five and I pass the weed back and forth. The haze fills the car, surrounding us both, time steadily passing.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
7:45 p.m.
Fifteen minutes to go.
Nothing.
“You ever see Return of the Jedi, Five?”
“No.”
His answer is unapologetic. Turning my head, I look at him through the darkness that shrouds the car, wondering what kind of monsters I’ve befriended if he’s never seen Star Wars.
“If you survive tonight,” I say, “we’re going to have to do something about that.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” he says. “Any particular reason you’re bringing it up right now?”
“Because, as Admiral Ackbar so nicely put it, it’s a trap!”
Five cuts his eyes at me as I pull out my phone, making sure the son of a bitch is still on since it hasn’t rang. “You think we’re walking into a trap?”
“I sat out here the other night, watching this place, and in the span of thirty minutes I counted no less than a dozen people in and out. Tonight? Not a single soul.”
“Could it be they’re all at Aristov’s?”
“Maybe,” I say. “But if that’s the case, there’s no way Scarlet’s here. He’s not leaving her unguarded.”
“So either she’s not inside anymore or...”
“It’s a trap,” I say, calling Three’s number.
> He picks up on the second ring. “Yeah, boss?”
“Anything happening over there?”
“Seems pretty quiet,” Three says. “A few cars, a few lights, but otherwise, nothing unusual.”
“She hasn’t signaled you yet?”
“No,” he says. “I’m guessing the kid’s not inside.”
Or else it’s another trap...
“Hold your position,” I tell him. “Don’t go into that house, Three. That’s an order. You got me?”
“Uh, sure,” he says. “You think something’s wrong?”
“I know something’s wrong,” I say. “Were you aware Five here hasn’t watched Star Wars?”
“What?”
“Seriously, I can’t wrap my head around it, so I’m going to need a few minutes. Stay where you are, and call me if anything changes.”
I hang up, tapping my phone against my cheek a few times, as if that’ll help me think. Plan B. Plan C. Plan D. I’m quickly sliding my way right down to X-Y-Z, but only one idea is springing to mind.
Well, one idea that doesn’t involve a grenade. Still haven’t taken that off the table.
“When Han Solo rescued Princess Leia from the Death Star, you know how he managed it?”
“This sounds like it might contain movie spoilers.”
I laugh under my breath. Smart ass. “He dressed up like the enemy. He put on a stormtrooper uniform and waltzed his ass on through, undetected.”
“So, what, we need to become Russian? Not sure how that’s going to work...”
“No, we just need to not be who they’re expecting,” I say. “We need uniforms.”
I dial another number, waiting as it rings. And rings. And rings. I think maybe he’s not going to answer, but finally, he picks up, his voice hesitant. “Gambini?”
“Ah, Jameson, how are you and the boys in blue this evening?”
“Was doing pretty good until you just called,” he says. “You need something?”
“I need you to raid a place for me.”
“What place?”
“This place Aristov runs down in Brighton Beach... Limerence.”
He doesn’t respond right away.
“You hear what I said, Jameson?”
“I’m hoping not,” he says, “because it sounded like you were asking me to put together a raid on a strip club in Brooklyn, where I don’t have any jurisdiction, without any probable cause.”
“Well, it’s more like a whorehouse...”
“There’s no way,” he says. “No judge is going to sign off on that.”
“I don’t expect you to get a search warrant. I just need you and the guys to, you know... go in, lock it down for me, so I can take a quick look around.”
He curses under his breath.
“I can talk to the guys, see if we can work something out,” he says. “When do you need this to happen?”
I glance at the clock.
7:50 p.m.
“In about ten minutes.”
“You’re joking,” he says. “I can’t even fucking get to Brooklyn in ten minutes, Gambini.”
“Well, then, you might want to use the siren,” I say. “I’ll owe you one.”
I hate those words. I’ll owe you one. I hate owing anybody anything. But it does the trick, like I need it to, because he tells me to hold tight before he hangs up the phone.
“Uniforms,” Five says. “Smart.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see if it works.”
Another few minutes go by, still seeing no sign of life around the club. Light’s on, but nobody’s home.
Eight o’clock comes and goes.
Nobody makes a move.
Plan officially fucked.
8:17 p.m.
I see the cars speed by, whipping in along the curb—two unmarked NYPD cruisers and an unmarked SUV, lights and siren off, trying to go undetected. The officers climb out, conversing, getting their gear together as Jameson stands along the curb, eyes scanning the neighborhood, falling upon me.
Instead of approaching, he pulls out his phone.
Mine rings seconds later.
“Only seventeen minutes late,” I tell him.
“You’re lucky we’re here at all,” he says. “Damn lucky one of Aristov’s guys has an active felony warrant in the system, and the club is open, because it gives the guys some leeway to go right in, no judge needed.”
“Well, let’s hope the luck continues,” I say, “because there might be a woman chained up down in the basement that needs to be set free.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Not your woman, is it?”
I give him that one, not correcting him on her being mine. We both know who he means. “Yeah, that’s what we’re hearing.”
“Jesus... you’re serious? How the hell did he get her? Thought she was with you.”
“Long story,” I lie. It’s sort of a simple one—my closest guy betrayed us, turning into a bigger rat than Peter Pettigrew in Harry Potter. Yeah, whatever... you’re wondering how I know who that is, huh? Truth is, my brother’s got a nerdy side. He read the books as a kid, wouldn’t shut up about it. “Look, just go in, secure the building, make sure it’s clear, then give me the signal so I can come take a peek.”
“Got it,” he says, hesitating before adding, “What’s the signal?”
Sighing, I pinch the bridge of my nose, mumbling, “Do some jumping jacks, for all I fucking care. Just make something up. I’ll know.”
I hang up before he can respond, tossing my phone up on the dashboard to get it out of my hand before I snap the fucking thing in half out of annoyance.
8:21 p.m.
The plainclothes warrant squad rushes into the building, guns drawn. All is silent. No gunshots.
8:25 p.m.
Jameson’s on his phone. He turns toward me in the car, not-so-subtly tapping the side of his nose.
“Is he on coke?” Five asks, watching.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I mutter. “Come on, that’ll be our signal.”
We get out, as do the rest of my guys, leaving the heavy weapons stashed in the trunks, since the police are now involved, small guns hidden on us just in case something happens.
There are a few guys inside the club, twice as many girls, all of them lined up along the wall, sitting on the floor with their hands visible. Officers stand guard in front of them, keeping them wrangled, as I walk right in and help myself to Aristov’s office.
The keys aren’t where Three’s girl said they’d be, but I find them easily enough, tossed in a drawer. The basement door is here in the office, and I fumble with the keys, trying to figure out which one goes to which lock as my guys stand guard nearby.
Five is right behind me.
“Here,” he says, snatching the keys from my hand. “Let me do this for you.”
Under normal circumstances, I would’ve lost my cool over that, but being as I’m in a hurry, I let it go... for now.
He gets the door unlocked a lot quicker than I could, and I flick on a light as I pull out my gun, just in case I’m about to be ambushed.
It’s quiet, and still, like nobody is here.
“Scarlet?” I call out as I head down into the basement, my voice echoing off the barren concrete walls.
No answer.
I come to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the steps as I look in the shadows, being met with a pair of discarded red heels.
That’s never a good sign.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Just inches from where they’d been kicked off in what looks like a struggle, I spot a pair of feet, the black pantyhose covering them ripped. They peek out from the bottom of a tattered blue blanket, but I can’t see anything else, the rest covered.
I feel like the fucking Grinch as I stop here, staring at what’s clearly a lifeless body. My heart feels like it’s way too big, the only thing inside of me, each beat hard and hesitant, like it’s squeezing the life out of my fucking chest.
/> “Boss, what—oh, whoa... fuck.”
Five rode the whole gauntlet of emotion with just that one sentence. Confusion. Shock. Distress.
He stalls there, taking my place as I step forward. Reaching down, I grab the blanket, pulling the top part of it down to look.
I exhale loudly—too damn loudly—the second I see the face. Three’s pretty little brunette is chained to the concrete floor like a dog, makeup streaking her cheeks. She’s not breathing. The chain is wound so tightly around her neck that it asphyxiated her.
She’s alone, though.
Not that it makes it any better.
She’s not supposed to be here at all.
She was supposed to be at the house.
She was supposed to signal Three.
She was supposed to get the kid out, but instead, here she is. And the worst part of all, I think, is that the sight of her is bringing me relief.
It could be worse. A lot worse.
It could be Scarlet.
For a moment, just a flicker, I truly thought it was, and the way that’s making me feel inside? I don’t like it. It has me all twisted up.
I lower the blanket back over the girl’s face, covering her once more. I stand in silence, trying to come to terms with whatever this is I’m feeling.
“Is it...? Fuck, boss, I need you to say something. It’s not her, is it? Is that Morgan?”
I glance at him. He looks legitimately concerned, like the son of a bitch might be getting emotional. “No.”
His eyes widen. I see it in him, too. Relief.
“It’s Three’s girl,” I say, heading for the steps. “Guess we know now why she didn’t signal him.”
Five blinks, the relief gone as he looks past me, whispering, “Fuck, this is going to hurt Declan.”
I make my way out of the basement. Five follows me, right on my heels. There’s no reason to linger any longer. What we came for isn’t here, like I feared. I nod my thanks to the officers and head out the front of the club, out into the peculiarly warm night, empty-handed and out of luck.
I wish I could say I was also out of fucks, but no, those just keep on growing, simmering and festering. For the first time in a long time, I feel this strange twinge inside of me. It’s hard to describe. It’s a tightening in my chest. It’s a tingling in my fingertips. It feels as if my lungs are trembling, like the weak punk bitches are trying to stop functioning. The woman has got me all fucked up here, flipped upside down and inside out.