“You don’t trust us,” Roger accused sourly.
“Shut up,” Mickey hissed. “Just leave it alone. He ain’t gotta tell us everything.”
“Fuck you, I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Fuck you!”
“Gentlemen.” Cold held up his hand for silence. “I want to trust all of you, but the situation we’re in requires a certain degree of caution as we move forward. Someone leaked our plans to spare Mr. Ricci, and Mickey was almost killed. Someone then decided to share our plans for taking the gun shipment at the plant, and we may have lost two more of our Gentlemen.”
Jerry said something hastily in French, and it did not sound kind.
“That as well,” Cold agreed. “Yes, it could still be someone working for Cristian and bad luck, but I am not certain. Until then, I am keeping some elements of the plan on a need to know basis.”
“There’s a snitch!” Rowena gasped from where she was peeking out from the bottom of the stairs. “Are you gonna whack ‘em?”
“Upstairs! Now!” Cold shouted, starting to rise up from the table.
Rowena squealed and immediately vanished.
“Spunky little thing,” Roger noted.
“You ain’t got no idea.” Jules laughed. “That little girl is gonna grow up to be one bad bitch.”
Cold scowled.
“What?” Jules scoffed. “She don’t take shit from you, she ain’t gonna take shit from nobody. And if somebody tries to mess with her, they’re gonna have a real bad day.”
“Speaking of people having bad days,” Mickey began carefully, “did we find out what was going on with that Gregory guy from the plant?”
“Yes,” Alistair replied. “It wasn’t him.”
Mickey narrowed his eyes. “Are we sure?”
“Oh, we’re very sure,” Jules chimed in. He plopped back down at the table, and he looked quite proud of himself. “I’m very persuasive.”
Jerry swung around the table to collect the finished plates. He rolled his eyes at Jules’ boasting, but he didn’t say anything.
Pym appeared then, perhaps from the basement, and he didn’t have his glasses on. He looked like he’d just woken up. Squinting and rubbing at his eyes, he said urgently, “Hey, you guys gotta turn on the TV. Right now.”
“What is it?” Cold demanded.
“It’s the club.”
Jules was closest to the television in the den, and he got up to go turn it on.
“What’s going on?” Alistair asked, glancing back at Pym and following Jules worriedly.
“I heard something on the radio about a fire,” Pym replied. “I think it’s Slick Rick’s.”
“—Strassen Springs Fire Department is currently investigating the cause of the fire,” the reporter on the television was saying, “but they have not released any official statements at this time. The fire was first reported this morning at four o’clock, and the building was totally engulfed—”
The screen showed the block of the city where the club once stood, the charred remains surrounded by a crowd of fire engines and other emergency vehicles. It was still smoking, but there was nothing left except blackened chunks and what may have been the remnants of the steel cages eerily peeking through the ashes.
“What the absolute fuck?” Jules growled.
“Slick Rick’s,” Mickey said stupidly, staring at the blackened husk on the screen. “It’s gone.”
Alistair was immediately on his phone and stalking out of the room toward the stairs.
