What a fuckin' waste.
My dashboard screen lit up and Tech's face appeared. "Get out of there, Angel," he said. The map with our blinking drop point reappeared on the screen.
"You tried," Bones said. "Stupid son-of-a-bitch should have listened."
My father's men were watching me, measuring my reaction, judging whether or not I was ruthless and apathetic enough to lead their merry band of murderers. Shit, this was what I'd been born to do. Nodding a thanks to them, I slid the Hummer into gear and merged back onto the freeway. In my rearview mirror, I watched them load the body bag into the SUV.
He was a good guy--a good cop--and in Vegas, nice guys didn't just finish last... they didn't finish at all.
CHAPTER TWO
Markie
WITH MY SUITCASE packed and set beside the door, I paced the small, dank room I had shared with eight orphans for the past eleven months. Empty, lumpy mattresses sat atop four sets of bunk beds, the absence of their occupants filling my stomach with lead.
The door opened, and I stopped in my tracks, hopeful.
Tad stepped into the room, wringing his hands as he scanned the space. "They're still not back," he said, leaning against a bunk.
Somewhere north of forty with skin darker than a starless night and heart larger than Texas, Tad had devoted his life and finances to running this orphanage in the impoverished, AIDS-ridden village of Mwembeshi, Zambia. He had patience for days, but I'd managed to wear it thin on more than one occasion. Today was no exception.
He glanced at his watch. "If we don't leave in the next ten minutes, you'll miss your flight, Ms. Markie."
"I know. I just--" Having no idea how to finish the statement, I closed my mouth. Almost four hours ago the children--six girls and two boys ranging from ages three to ten--had set off to deliver fresh water to a family in the bush north of the village. We'd made the trek together dozens of times, but this time I stayed behind to pack and say my good-byes to the villagers. The delivery should have taken them two hours, round trip, and knowing I was on a schedule, the children had promised to hurry back. And with every minute they were late, my stomach tied in another knot.
"I'm sure they'll be all right, Ms. Markie," Tad said. "They know the land. They will not get lost."
My worries had more to do with Zambia's Boko Haram infestation than with the children getting lost. If those psychos got their hands on the children... there'd be nothing I could do. We'd be lucky to ever see them again. Guilt gnawed at my insides, making me wish I'd just gone with them. A little voice in the back of my mind reminded me I was abandoning the children to head back to the States and they'd have to make deliveries without me from now on. Doubting my decision to leave for the millionth time, I checked my cheap, international cell phone again, hoping for a text from my sister. Nothing. It had been weeks since I'd heard from Ariana.
And now I was about to break my promise and head back to the States. Hopefully nobody from Idaho would find out.
The voices of children calling my name drew my attention from my phone. I looked up just in time to count heads as all eight rushed through the door and stopped short, breathing heavily as sweat dripped down their faces.
"What is it? What's wrong?" I asked, wondering if they were being chased.
"We didn't want to miss you," the oldest boy, Kael, breathed.
I didn't care how sweaty they were, I wrapped each in a hug and kissed their moist cheeks. "Where have you guys been? I was so worried!"
"Ms. Tanishia was having her baby, and Hadiya had to help," the five-year-old girl, Aboyomi, said.
"I had to learn," Hadiya, the eldest girl, defended. "I knew you'd understand, Ms. Markie."
I did understand, but Tad took that moment to remind me we were out of time. The children carried my bags to the jeep, we said hurried good-byes, and then Tad and I were off to the airport. Tad drove as fast as his broken-down jeep could, and we arrived only moments before I needed to board. I barely had time to thank him before being whisked onto the plane and strapping in. As Africa shrank beneath my feet, the reality of my departure hit me. I didn't cry--never been big on shedding tears, especially not in public--but my chest felt hollow. Even more so, since I doubted I'd ever return.
***
After what seemed like a lifetime of flights and layovers, I finally landed in Las Vegas. I grabbed my bag from baggage claim and was headed for the exit when the aroma of pizza smacked me across the face, reminding my growling stomach that it took more than a handful of airline pretzels to make a meal. Temporarily tabling my search for my wayward sister, I followed my nose to Don's Pizzeria. The restaurant was packed, so I sighed and gave my name to the hostess before wheeling my luggage over to sit in the waiting area.
I was in the middle of typing out text number two hundred and seventy-two to Ariana when a man approached, smiling. Barely older than me, and dressed in a slick tailored suit, it was clear that this was the man in charge. Definitely upper management.
"Is my table ready?" I asked.
He glanced from side to side and then cocked his head like he was trying to figure me out. Then he smirked and my breath hitched. Holy crap the man was hot. As in the next James Bond hot. Feeling like an idiot, I shook my head as heat rushed to my cheeks.
"You're not the manager, are you?" I asked.
"Uh, no." He held out his hand for me to shake. "I'm Angel. And although I can't get you your own table, there's room at mine if you're interested."
