Duncan cringed. “Okay, only kind of? I thought we’d have some time after not killing that guy, and I could do it then—”
“But there’s still medical supplies there, right? Let’s go. We gotta call Cold. This is all fucked up.”
“Here, I’ve got you.” Duncan waited until they were at a stoplight to fish his phone out of his pocket, punching buttons quickly. “I’ll put it on speaker.”
Each tinny ring made Mickey’s stomach turn. He’d never failed before, and a lick of shame compounded the physical pain he was already in.
“What?” Cold’s voice snapped.
“We got a problem,” Mickey said hurriedly.
“What’s wrong?” Cold demanded, his tone changing at once.
“We gotta meet. Now.”
“Was it done?”
“No. But also yes.”
“Explain, please.”
“I didn’t do it, like I was supposed to. Someone else did.”
“Fuck.” Cold’s voice was a snarling whisper. There was a loud crunch, and the line suddenly went dead.
“What the fuck?” Mickey stared at the phone. “Did he hang up?”
“I don’t know!” Duncan cried. “Maybe the call dropped?”
“Call him the fuck back!”
The phone rang.
“Weird,” Duncan said. “That’s Alistair’s number.”
“Pick it up!”
“Uh, hello?”
“It’s me,” Cold’s grumpy voice said. “Where are you now?”
“Driving to the safe house,” Mickey replied quickly. “Took one, okay?”
“Are you all right?” Cold sounded concerned now.
“I’m good. I can make it to the house.”
“Go. I’ll meet you there.”
Duncan hung up and put both hands back on the steering wheel. “Okay, okay, okay. I’m sure this is fine. You’re bleeding, but it’s fine. Everything is fine. Cold sounds mad as hell, but it’s okay! Everything is totally okay.”
“Duncan. Please. Shut up.”
“Shutting up.”
Duncan drove them to the safe house and helped Mickey inside. He sat him down in the living room, promising to return with the first aid kit. Mickey flopped back on the couch with a grunt, trying to keep his arm up and maintain pressure.
This was just great.
