“Don’t call her babe,” Hangman growls. “She’s not your babe. She’s a harridan.” He thinks for a moment. “Yeah, call her a harridan.”
I look up at Eight. “That’s a pretty big?—”
He shakes me. “Stop, Selkie. Please stop.”
The words suggest he’s pleading with me, but the tone of his voice suggests that I deserve a good hard spanking.
Hmmm. Maybe I do.
Finally, after what seems like a decade, Joker gets the text from Coyote. He reads it, then grimly says, “Let’s go.” To Hangman and me, he says, “You two stick to the plan.”
Is Joker kidding, lumping me and Hangman in the same sentence?
“Fuck off,” Hangman says to him, which is what I was about to say, but now can’t say because if I do, then it validates what Joker said about me and Hangman being alike. Eight tightens his grip on me in anticipation of me opening my mouth, but I keep it shut. Aren’t I full of surprises?
As we slip up to the warehouse, I say quietly to Eight, “Don’t get killed.”
He looks at me with soft eyes. “Same, Selkie.”
“Save that shit for later,” Hangman gags. “Or never.” Then he storms past Joker and slams open the front door.
“Jesus Christ, Hangman!” Joker shouts as he tries to grab him by his cut, and misses. Hangman, despite his bulk, moves like a butterfly.
“Renfrew! Where the fuck are you!” Hangman’s booming voice echoes in the big space.
The 311 Boys’ clubhouse is an empty tomb, but that’s not a surprise. The sun is starting to rise and only rescuers (that’s us) and idiots (the kids guarding the bikes) are still up. However, the room is dimly lit, which makes me nervous. Maybe not all of the gang is sleeping. Maybe some are waiting in the shadows, ready to open fire on us.
And there’s a few doors at the back, which could conceal more gang bangers. Or maybe Henri and Oscar are back there, tied up and bruised from the beating they were given.
Or maybe they’re not, Selkie. Chill babe. Or harridan. Just chill.
But if they weren’t tied up, why aren’t they rushing into our arms, happy to see us?
Maybe they’re not here at all.
Maybe they’re not happy to see us.
I peer into the gloom hoping to find our two little runaways, but don’t see them anywhere. I also don’t see Jonny Fry, but Sadie, the asshole Blackbeard is dead asleep under one of the dim lights, slumped in an overstuffed armchair, his mouth hanging open as he snores loudly.
My heart gives a little jump for joy that I’ve finally tracked down him down, but then I remind myself that we’re here to find Henri and Oscar.
Renfrew, who had previously been lounging on a couch, jerks to his feet. “Who the fuck let you in?”
Renfrew has all the hallmarks of a rich kid. He’s blond, with blue eyes, an awesome nose, perfect teeth and great shoes. There are definitely no mixed marriages in his genetics. He sounds tough, but I can see fear and confusion on his face. He might be a dangerous asshole, but Hangman’s all of that and more.
“We walked in. None of your potheads out there to stop us,” he says with a smirk as he swaggers up to Renfrew.
“Keep your voice down,” I say to Hangman. “People are sleeping.” What I actually mean is that we don’t want to wake the gangbangers up and get ourselves killed.
I realize I should have said that part, because Hangman furrows his forehead, then shifts his glare to Eight. “What the fuck is wrong with her?”
Eight shrugs. “Hard to narrow it down.”
I furrow my forehead at Eight, but don’t call him out, because I’m not sure how to narrow it down myself.
While Hangman’s distracted, Renfrew does a quick survey of the room, eyes landing on the rest of the Jury, who are now lounging inside, next to the other exits. They all look relaxed and uninterested in what’s going down, but I’m pretty sure that’s for show.
Renfrew returns his attention to Hangman, trying to keep his voice nonchalant. “You come to join the party? Shouldn’t you be in bed, old man?”
