“Is that a first name or a surname?” she asks sweetly, sounding genuinely curious.
“Sur—” I abruptly cut myself off. Now she’s pumping me for information and like an idiot, I’m giving it to her. “Stay quiet or I’ll tie you to the bed again.” I slam the door, emotions swirling in a chaotic whirlpool.
Even if I take her with me, she won’t let me touch her again. Not unless I have something she needs.
My thoughts scramble at the sound of an approaching vehicle.
I open the bedroom door again, eyes narrowing as Nadia jumps as though caught doing something she shouldn’t. What, I don’t know. There’s nothing in the room she could use as a weapon. That was the first thing I checked on my sweep of the house.
“He’s here. Stay quiet and I won’t send him in.”
Her eyes widen, mouth dropping open, and I shut the door again on her distress. Hopefully, it’ll be enough to keep her silent.
I barge out the front door, greeting the new arrival halfway with an elaborate handshake that only the most fervent of the Waimak Pack bother performing. Razek certainly appears to be that.
“You’ve got the credit to pay for these arrangements?” he asks as the first matter of business, and I nod.
“There’s ten grand worth of P inside.”
P is the most common street name for meth down here, taken from the practice of selling point one of a gram as a standard measure.
“It’s been rerouted from the Highway Rangers,” I add and his face brightens at the mention.
Our gangs are in direct opposition, struggling for a foothold in the same territory with much the same numbers. Taking money meant for their coffers makes the exchange extra sweet.
“That’ll cover it.” He glances over at Nadia’s car, wrinkling his nose in dismissal. “And I hope you’re throwing that piece of garbage in for free.”
“Leave it and catch an Uber home. I’m sure this old place won’t mind having another eyesore for company.”
“Uber? Yeah, right.” He snorts in amusement, clapping me on the shoulder and steering me inside.
If it were any other occasion, I’d bristle and assert my dominance, but I’ve got bigger concerns right now than that bullshit.
“You’ll take my wheels,” he says, pulling across a chair and taking a seat. He digs into his jacket pocket, pulling out a variety of cards, business and plastic. The former for potential contacts along the route, the latter for readies. “These should be good for another few days but don’t unless you absolutely have to. Got any cash?”
“About ten bucks.”
“Shit. Didn’t realise you were that poverty stricken.” He digs into his pockets again, jeans this time, and pulls out a couple hundred in twenties. “This should see you right. There’s a couple changes of clothes in the backseat.”
“Right. I’ll need a phone.”
“There’s some burners in there.” He tilts his head to the side, squinting at me. “I should’ve thought to grab you some hair dye. The entire city’s already looking for a pretty blue-eyed blond.”
“Fuck you, too. I’ll grab some at the chemist. Got a baseball cap?”
“Nah, but you’ll probably be set for another hour or so. You’re all over the radio but until they put your mugshot on the telly, you’ll be able to skate.”
He glances around the room, eyes probing in a way that makes me uneasy. “Anything else?” I ask, trying to keep the edge from my voice.
“Where’d you dump the old lady?”
“Back up the road a stretch. Nowhere that’ll stay hidden for long.”
“Right.” A smirk distorts his face. “You should’ve dumped her at the start. They’ll have checkpoints up to catch you leaving the area.”
I stiffen, though it stands to reason they’d block the roads out of the area. The police know I’ve got a car, after all.
“The highways’ll already be crawling.”
