And then I get to the computer and start researching again, because I don’t want to still be here if he sends someone else.I’m already in deeper than I want to be, and I don’t trust those fucking Russians.I don’t know them and I don’t like them, and I know from experience that they won’t follow the rules everyone else follows.
Hell, I don’t even know what their position is here.Are they my father’s partners, or his bosses?Because if they’re his bosses, it means I don’t have the protection I think I have.Not even my father will be able to protect me if they come for me.
I don’t have any real allies, here.
Except Lucien, and he’s out there somewhere, doing fuck knows what.I don’t know if he knows what’s going on inside the ring, or if he even knows where I am.I have no way of contacting him, and even if I did–
Wait.I could contact him, I realize, though not directly.I could call Camille and have her find him, though.Get him on the phone.Give him my number.
And what then?If he knows what’s going on–what I’ve seen–I know exactly what he’ll do.He’ll get angry, decide he needs to throw his weight around, go all Boudreaux Big Man In The City and come charging in.
And he’ll get himself killed.
No.I refuse to put him in danger just because I’m a little bit scared.I won’t do it.
But I don’t like that there are Russians involved in this situation.Italians, I can handle.Creoles, I can handle.French?No problem.
But Russians are brutes who don’t know how to follow the rules, and the fact that they’re in my city–and dealing with my father–is a big, big problem.
Even worse if they somehow connect me to the girls who went missing from the basement.No one has said anything to me about that yet, but I assume it’s only a matter of time.
And I have yet to come up with a plausible cover for when they do.
Lucien
Irush back to my house with only one thing on my mind.
Well, two.
Someone knew we were going to be at that port.Actually, cancel that, because there are two options there: Either they knew and were ready with guns and men, or they were also there to steal the shipment, probably for some nefarious purpose.And that brings up a whole host of other questions.Was Dom actually the one shipping out girls tonight, or was it someone else?Everything we saw told us there was a group leaving, complete with port number and descriptions of girls—though no destination—but there was no designated distributor.I just assumed it was Dom, given everything we’ve seen.
So why was someone else at the port with guns, when Dom wasn’t there?
Were those actually Dom’s guys, there to secure the docks ahead of time?Did he learn his lesson during my first mission tot he docks and realize that his cover had been blown?If he did, it would make sense for him to have sent men ahead of time to make sure no one was waiting for him at the dock.
But I’ve known Dom a long time, and the man isn’t careful.He almost never thinks ahead, and I wouldn’t expect him to suddenly start.
It makes more sense that someone else was there to interrupt the shipment.
But who?
I burst through the door of my war room and hit all the switches, flooding bright electric through the night and illuminating our research and tech.A glance around the room shows me everything I already know is here: the computers, the screens, the tables full of laptops, tablets, and phones.Wall after wall of grainy pictures, maps, and lists.Stacks of papers on the tables where Daniel and I have been going through information like our lives depend on it.
Nothing new.There’s not going to be anything new in here, and what we have here doesn’t help me.I know this because we’ve been through it eleventy-seven times, at least, and still haven’t learned what we need to know.
There’s certainly nothing here that will help me with my biggest concern.
Brooks.
Shit.
I walk to the first table, slap my hands on it, and sweep them violently to the side, throwing computers, papers, and phones to the floor.I know as I do it that it’s a mess I’ll have to clean up later, but what else is new?
I’ve been cleaning up messes since Brooks showed up in my catacombs weeks ago, telling me she was in trouble in New York and needed men.
I smirk at that, though, because she would skin me alive if she heard me categorize it that way.She wasn’t in trouble, she would tell me.Someone else was making trouble and she was finishing it.She didn’tneedmen.
Sheexpectedthem.
