Legend set out the food—sandwiches, fries, soup, and something spicy AB immediately claimed—and dropped into the chair beside me. “You’re talking big for someone who hasn’t played us yet.”
“Oh, I’ve played you,” I said lightly. “You just didn’t notice.”
Voodoo returned with drinks—beer for the guys, sparkling wine for me, because he noticed things—and set them down. The fact Voodoo had taken the time to step out and grab drinks was sweet. “Alright. House rules, lose a hand, lose a layer.”
AB raised his bottle. “Win a hand, earn a promise.”
Legend bumped his shoulder against mine. “You ready for this, Gracie?”
I looked around at them—these men who had torn men down for me today and they’d do it again tomorrow and the day after that if I needed it—and felt something warm settle under my ribs.
They needed this.
God, so did I.
I nodded, settling into my chair. “Deal the cards, boys.”
Just like that, for the first time since Bones had been taken, the air around us eased—not because the danger was gone, but because, for this moment, we let ourselves breathe.
Chapter
Twelve
ALPHABET
Caffeine made my pulse hum like malfunctioning wiring. Four cans of whatever energy sludge Lunchbox had stocked in the fridge were probably a sign I needed an intervention, but right now they were the reason we finally had movement.
Real movement.
My hands still shook a little as I braced one on the doorframe of the upstairs bedroom. I’d meant to knock. I really had. But the second everything clicked into place—the moment the name finally matched—I forgot all about etiquette.
“Hey,” I hissed, pushing the door open with my shoulder. “Hey, wake up—guys, seriously, wake up.”
In the low gray morning light, all three of them were a tangle of limbs on the too-small bed. Grace flat on her stomach, cheek pressed against Bones’ shoulder; Bones curled protectively around her; Voodoo sprawled behind her, one arm draped over her waist like he’d anchored both of them through the night.
Three sets of instincts came online in the same instant.
Bones’ eyes snapped open first—sharp, feral. Voodoo’s hand went straight under the pillow for the knife he liked to sleepwith. Grace jerked, inhaled hard, then blinked up at me in bleary confusion.
I lifted both hands. “Not a threat. Just me. Hi. Good morning. I need your brains.”
Bones pushed up on one elbow. “Alphabet, you better be dying or this better be about her sister.”
“It is,” I said, too fast. Okay, maybe I was vibrating a little. “The second one. Definitely the second one.”
That got everyone awake fast.
Grace pushed her hair back, sitting up between them as Voodoo rubbed a hand down his face. “AB… breathe,” she murmured.
“Breathing later. Information now.” I dragged my laptop case off my shoulder and set it on the foot of the bed. “I found the match. One of Sinclair’s garbled names? It finally hit. Marcos Sarmiento. Or de Sarjiento. Or the alias ‘La De Sargento.’ One guy, three variations. Same signature style, same work patterns.”
Voodoo frowned. “Sarmiento… rings a bell.”
Bones grunted. “South American broker. The kind who handles deals between groups who don’t like each other.”
“Correct,” I said, pleased he’d saved me ten seconds of exposition. “And more importantly, he’s tied to a shell corporation that maintains a private port in Delaware. Harborstone Logistics.”
Grace’s eyes sharpened. She shifted forward, knees under her, the exhaustion dropping away like a shed skin. “What kind of ties?”
