He’d failed the mission, just as he had failed with Mr. Ricci. He hadn’t been able to save Crybaby, and that was perhaps the worst of all. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Cold, and he stared at the floor as he took Cold’s hand.
Cold allowed Mickey to kiss his hand, and he gently urged him to look up with a nudge on his chin. “Are you all right?”
“Still alive, Boss.” Mickey finally met Cold’s eyes and found nothing there but a steely concern. It took off the edge of the spiky ball of dread in his gut, though it did not remove it.
“Sit. Drink. Talk. In that order.” Cold waved at Jerry, who fetched two glasses and poured heavily.
Mickey sat down in the chair across from Cold as instructed, leaning back in the plush chair and chugging the glass Jerry gave him. It was scotch, warm and expensive. Roger sat on the couch and chugged his drink as well.
Jerry refilled their glasses wordlessly.
Mickey took another gulp before he began. “We get in, we’re waiting, everything’s fine. Truck shows up. Everybody leaves. Five Luchesi assholes come in, and we’re ready to jump. Then ten more of those fucking assholes come strolling out from inside the damn building with Salvatore Luchesi leading the way.”
“Inside the plant?” Cold narrowed his eyes. “They were already there?”
“Had to fucking be.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Boss. There’s no way that many fuckin’ douchebags came waltzing by us without us seeing them unless they came in through the front door and were in there waitin’ for us.”
Cold and Alistair exchanged a glance.
“Thought we had that supervisor guy on our side?” Roger scowled. “What the fuck?”
“Gregory Tucker.” Cold’s upper lip twitched. “And yes, we did. Or so we thought.”
“I’ll go see Gregory tonight.” Alistair frowned. “I don’t think he would have betrayed us, but maybe he knows who did.” He tilted his head. “Do you want me to pick up Patrick just in case?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Cold replied. “Talk to Gregory. See what he knows. I’ll send Jules to get Patrick if we need to.” His icy eyes shifted back to Mickey. “Go on.”
“Right.” Mickey finished off his drink. “So, these assholes come on out, everybody starts fucking shooting. Roger had fuckin’ grenades and starts blowing shit up like a goddamn maniac—”
“Hey, what else could I fucking do?” Roger snapped. “We were getting fucking hammered!”
“Okay, whatever!” Mickey gritted his teeth. He didn’t feel like fighting with Roger, especially in front of Cold. He knew Roger was probably still upset about Crybaby, and he tried to stay calm. “It was good thinkin’ ’cause it’s honestly how we got the hell out of there.”
“I’m assuming that was the source of the fire?” Cold drawled.
“Yeah, Boss.”
“And the others? Where are Crybaby and Duncan?”
“Duncan took the fuck off before me and Mickey got out,” Roger sneered. “Little shit hauled ass.”
Cold glanced to Mickey for confirmation.
“He was just gone,” Mickey said. “We didn’t see him when we left, and I wasn’t sticking around to look for him. Tried calling him after we talked to you. Nothing.”
“And Crybaby?” Alistair asked sharply. “Where is she?”
Mickey closed his eyes. “Saw Salvatore shoot her. Saw her go down. She’s dead.”
Cold flinched, his hand tightening around his glass. “You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure. I looked back when we were running out of there. Saw her on the ground. She wasn’t moving.”
Alistair was visibly distraught, and Jerry turned the bottle of scotch up, saying something mournful in French. Roger was quiet, but he stood up to snatch the bottle away from Jerry.
