“Maybe I will.”
“You might,” I murmur, her blood pounding under the fingers resting on her throat, “right up until Mr. Trigger Happy gets lucky.”
Her whole being jerks.
“I don’t want to waste time tying you up, but I will if that’s the only way to keep you in that fucking bathroom. You’ll be asitting duck, but…”
“I’ll do it.”
I release her and she crawls away.
Maybe I should tie her up, just in case, but she’s safe now, and barring any menacing snipers scaling the building and getting past the bars her da had put in, no one’s breaking through the door once I lock it.
I can pick locks with the best of them, and this door would slow me right down to a backward crawl without an actual key. I throw a cushion at the window, and it explodes into feathers. And then I dash across the room, grabbing my phone and hers from the table where she left them. I check that the keys are in my wallet and the gun is in its holster.
I undo the locks and run down the stairs, the sirens getting louder as they approach. I’m about to dart across the street as the door opens and an average-sized person appears dressed in jeans, a hoodie, and a baseball cap—uniform of the sly criminal.
I start to chase the shooter when the scent of Carroll’s cigarettes wafts under my nose.
I only know two people who smoke those cigarettes here in the States.
Sirens get louder.
The pounding in my bones tells me to take off after the shooter, but instinct makes me stay where I am. I turn.
He leans against the wall of the building, cigarette butts at his feet, one boot kicked back against the brick as his blue eyes hit me.
But the streak of silver in the black curls doesn’t belong to Cal.
It’s my cousin Roark.
“The pigs are almost here,” he says with a slow smile that flirts with his eyes butdoesn’t quite reach them. “My advice would be to take your lass and move her fast, like nothing happened. Before they do a door-to-door search.”
“Ifthey do that.” No deaths or reports from a victim might mean no investigation. But he’s right. We need to get far away from here.
“Looked into your dead cop back in Queens, too. No one’s been reported missing, though. None of the bodies were moved from the truckyard, either. And there was no badge to be found.”
What the fuck? Who was the cop? What the hell was he doing there?
Shit, having Roark go down to the scene was supposed to get me answers, not generate more fucking questions.
“Did Tor tell you to come here?”
“Yeah, I wasn’t far away, so I said I’d check things out. A good sniper would have been gone after the second missed shot. That was…amateurish.” He grins, not caring he’s been caught. “Don’t be too pissed at them, though. You’re the baby.”
“You mean the fuck up.”
“The lass is still breathing, so that’s good.” He pauses. “Her mam’s ambitious. She came from nothing and turned Briggs from a successful company into a powerhouse. She’s got to be in a number of pockets. Like Milo Marcello’s,” he says with a knowing look.
My face must give my shock away.
“I’ve done some nosing around. Marcello is decent enough but holds grudges and takes what’s his. Nothing came up on your guy Mario, though. O’Shay’s a fool for trusting him, but he made a mistake. I can kill him if you like.”
“Not yet.” I pause. “What about Leon Garcia?”
“He’s related to a cartel but doesn’t seem eager to play.”
I swallow, then ask. “Did you find anything onthose drugs?”
