Chapter Twenty-Five
Suds
Outside the cheap hotel room, I shake hands with the SEAL. “Now remember, do not believe my wife, not even if she screams bloody murder.”
Wheels holds up a Taser. “You really want me to use this?”
“I’d rather have her mad at me than dead, brother. Thank you.” Waving goodbye, I whistle loud enough to be heard inside her room.
Then, I make my way down the stairs and outside where Slate waits in the parking lot.
“Is Sam secure?” He leans over and unlocks the passenger door as I glance up at the twelfth floor window.
“Depends. Is this new guy the best man you got?” I half expect her to be climbing down on a knotted sheet. After the image vanishes, I slide into the vehicle and buckle up.
“Yup.” One side of my friend’s mouth rises.
“Until I’m sure no one is gunning for her, she is not leaving that room.”
“Your funeral.”
I rub my arm across my itchy chin and can’t even remember the last time I shaved.
He gives me a side glance as he starts the engine. “Speaking of funerals. I was invited to Sam’s.”
“Oh shit. When is it?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Got any advice on how to tell her parents the truth?”
“If they start shooting, duck.”
“Thanks.”
“Where to?” Gripping the wheel, my pal waits for the light to turn.
“We need to go back to Bed Sty and pick up our witness. We tried to convince her earlier but she wouldn’t come. I got a real bad feeling, man. We need to hurry.”
My Patten boss grunts as he eases onto the street. “The FBI is standing by.”
“And Gomez?”
“He left town. The Feds are looking but no signs of him yet.” Slate, never much for conversation, remains pensive as map lady directs us back to where this all started.
The second he pulls in front of the murder building, a woman screams.
“Shit. We’re too late.” Hopping out, I bolt up the stairs.
“Moooommy!” A kid’s supersonic screech runs straight down my backbone and I will my feet to fly faster.
On the sixth floor, I pound on the door. “Open up.”
A hand slap followed by dead silence triggers my military mode. With the clarity of slow motion, I shoot off the lock and kick.
Inside, a thug holds a gun to the toddler’s head while Seraphim sits in a chair, her cheeks red and lips bloodied.
“Put down your weapon.” I aim between the mother-fucker’s beady eyes.
