Rafe pauses and readjusts his protective gloves. “Found something?”
“Twenty grand or so.” I’m already stuffing stacks inside my custom vest, flattening them down so they don’t bulge too much.
“One side left,” he says, voice rising just enough to carry over the buzz of metal on metal. His eyes narrow behind the protective glasses, pupils fixed on the line of the cut with intensity.
Something itches at the back of my skull. This feels too easy, like we’re playing into some kind of trap.
Metal shrieks against metal as the safe surrenders, the cut-out piece breaking free and hitting the floor with a sound like a dropped pan in an empty kitchen. I flinch, the noise ricocheting off the walls and vibrating through the soles of my boots.
“Bellamy.” I hear the grin in his voice even before I see it.
My sneakers scuff the rug as I drop to my knees beside him. The safe's interior gleams in the half-light—green and cream rectangles stacked like bricks, bound with paper bands stamped $10,000. Velvet pouches bulge from the corners, their drawstrings loose enough to reveal glints of metal and stone. Three black cases with silver clasps lie flat against the back wall. And there, wedged against them like an afterthought, two gallon Ziploc bags swollen with smaller plastic bags full of white tablets, each one stamped with a tiny grinning skull.
Rafe whistles under his breath. “Highlight takes their riders seriously,” he says, voice a low rasp.
I blink, squinting at the little skulls. “Is that?—”
“Pack it up. We’ll figure it out later.”
I take a second to process. “No. I’m not taking it. That’s not the job.”
He shrugs, like maybe it’s not, or maybe it always is. “I’ll take ‘em.” He tosses the Ziploc bags into his backpack, right on top of his safe kit. “Coco likes stocking up.”
But my stomach tightens. That skull looks familiar, and I have a feeling Beck will recognize it. He runs a database on narcotics branding. He’s obsessive, and terrified of us getting caught up in something.
“Since when?”
“Coco knows people.” He glances up with a glint in his eye.
My lips part to argue when something thuds against the wall in the hallway. Rafe's fingers stop mid-motion. His muscles coil,then unwind as he rises from his crouch, the movement so fluid he barely disturbs the air. My lungs burn; I realize I've stopped breathing. The darkness between us seems to thicken, pressing against my eardrums.
“Load us up,” he murmurs, tapping my backpack without looking at me.
Adrenaline spikes through me. I shovel cash, jewelry cases, and loose bills into my backpack, fingers moving on autopilot. My vest isn’t full, but it’s slower.
Rafe slides to the door in three fluid steps. His hand disappears behind him and reappears with a matte black pistol, fingers curled around the grip like they were born there. The muscles in his jaw tighten as he eases the door open an inch, one eye pressed to the crack, breath held so still I can hear the building settling around us.
The line of his shoulders loosens and he opens the door wide. “Keep it down and hurry up.”
Cruz’s voice fires back immediately. “You gonna shoot us, Rafe? The fuck?”
Metal scrapes concrete as something heavy slides across the hallway floor. From the shadows, Gage's grunt echoes off the walls, followed by ragged breathing. “These boards weigh a goddamn ton.”
Rafe glances at his watch. “Ten minutes left. You’ve got time for one more trip. Where’s the sister?”
“Right here,” Lola huffs, a little breathless but steady.
I swallow the instinct to go help her and keep stuffing cash in my backpack. Besides, she’d punch me if I insulted her like that.
“Good. Move faster.” Rafe shuts the door again, turning back to me.
“Did you sweep the room?”
“Not all of it. Just the desk.”
He jerks his chin toward the hutch behind me. “I’ll check it.”
He strides over, planting his foot on the lower shelf. A sharp tug, and the lock surrenders with a splintering crack that echoes like a gunshot in the quiet room.
