It was just another favor. Except I wasn’t sure what this favor was for this time, other than maybe it was just doing something for a friend. Would it be so bad to get to know her as a friend?
Friends don’t stare at each other’s asses.
“Fuck sake,” I murmured, turning the corner into Seb’s street.
At least by going to this family barbecue, I could prevent one more asshole from making her life hell.
Antonio still wanted to keep an eye on her. He liked her. But he liked everyone until he uncovered anything about them that went against what he did. It was a game to him. A way to intimidate them before he flipped the switch on them at the last minute.
I hated that she was caught up in the middle of it. A girl from an obviously clean background. She wouldn’t even have a criminal record, so for Antonio to believe she had some ulterior motive or plan... She cared too much, and her poker face was terrible. I mean, she could keep secrets but lying really wasn’t her strength. This was a girl whose cheeks flushed red when she was frustrated; whose blue eyes gave away every emotion she felt even when she thought no one noticed. There was no way she had an ulterior motive against Antonio.
Seb snorted loudly in his sleep as we arrived outside his apartment.
We had done this trip many times before, usually with me hauling Seb’s up to bed. Thankfully this time, he had it in him to walk the flight of stairs to his place without my help, stumbling up ahead of me while I hung back, keeping a close eye on where he placed his feet in case he toppled backward.
“You know what?” Seb slurred, glancing back over his shoulder as he reached the landing at the top of the stairs. “I don’t think I tell you enough how much I appreciate you.”
“Uh-huh.” I steered him toward his door on the narrow landing before he slumped against the wall. Once I was positive he wouldn’t keel over and nosedive the stairs, I unlocked the apartment door with the spare key he had given me for safekeeping years ago. The lock clicked and I gave the door a shove. I held it open for Seb to stumble over the threshold, fumbling for the light switch as he did.
The apartment only had one room, with the bedroom and living room combined at the back and a kitchen beside the entrance. It was small and a little outdated, and Seb had it decorated with skateboards and old records.
“No, I’m serious,” he said, backhanding my chest as he walked across the room to his bed and collapsed, face down, onto the covers. His voice was muffled by the mattress as he slurred, “I love you, man.”
“Love you too, buddy.”
I went to the kitchen to fill a glass with water and found some painkillers in his tiny bathroom off the room. The fridge was covered in crayon drawings from his two young nieces. I tracked down a bucket, dropped it beside his bed, and placed the water and painkillers on the stereo speaker-turned-nightstand beside his bed.
“You mean it?” he mumbled sleepily.
“Yes, Seb.” I tapped his foot. “You gonna be okay?”
No response. He was out already.
I headed back out again, feeling ready to collapse into bed myself. But just as I climbed into the car, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. The text I expected after the first heads-up phone call from Vince earlier tonight. It contained a location pin and a message saying container 47.
Bed would have to wait.
Google Maps led me to a freight yard on the shore of the Hudson in Brooklyn. The place was void of people and illuminated by the few large spotlights standing tall overhead. But those weren’t much help when it came to walking between the towering stacks of shipping containers, each casting shadows across the aisles between each row.
Thunder rumbled in the distance; a storm heading north, away from here.
I was using the torch on my phone to track down the number 47 container, squinting to read the faded numbers, every so often glancing over my shoulder in case I was being followed. That second-degree high from Seb’s joint had made me edgy, which was why I never smoked the stuff.
When a large, burly figure with a bald head stepped out from behind the shipping container up ahead, my heart nearly dropped out of my ass.
“Fuck sake, Vince,” I hissed as the bodyguard chuckled.
“Bit jumpy there, eh?” He clapped me over the shoulder as I joined him in walking around the corner, revealing the container beside us to be number 47 and we weren’t alone.
Antonio was in a conversation with four other guys. I didn’t know any of them but knew they weren’t on the business side of things. They shifted on their feet or had a stone-cold silence about them. These were the guys who did the shit-kicker jobs. Usually just out of jail and ready for action.
I made a mental note to steer clear of the fidgety one on the far left.
Antonio turned side-on, smiling as he lifted a hand in my direction. “Ah. Our driver has arrived.”
I nodded in greeting, giving off nothing as the others watched me closely. There was no need for introductions, or words shared. I was only there so they knew who their driver would be.
Antonio nodded to Vince once, who moved over to open the doors of the shipping container, letting them swing open with a quiet squeak while we all stood back. Inside was a large, dark gray van with a fake maintenance company logo stamped across the front. It was the van I would drive the night of the Winchester job and Antonio wanted to make sure I got a good look at it, to get an understanding of what I was moving.
