Mark Whitlock has been running rampant for too long. I’ve known of Whitlock’s empire for as long as I can remember. Even before I infiltrated Ernesto Caraldi’s stronghold, the man had been on the FBI radar. And if I scroll back through my own history, I remember him leaving a trail of destruction on the periphery of my world – gang fights as kids, dope deals in school, fancy parties with high-class hookers, and designer drugs.
His was a name that stuck out. Whitlock among the Aguilars and the O’Farrells and the Garcias. Did he think he wouldn’t stand out? Of course, he knew he would, the arrogant fuck. And I doubt he gave a shit. Paraded his white upper-class status like a badge of honor. And why not? It’s what he used to parlay his filthy lucre into supposedly respectable fortunes. The kind of money that opened doors to exclusive country clubs and golf courses where deals are made that impact entire economies.
As I look over the board, more connections start to form. When I’d found my way into the mob, the extent of his network had become apparent. Hotel chains, casinos, countless seemingly legitimate operations to launder money through the system. Money that had initially been cleaned for the cartel. Then, as he’d amassed his own fortune, Whitlock had begun to set wheels in action for his own dirty dealings. Alliances with rival families, gun runners, drug smugglers, fuckers who deal in human misery.
Before Raoul stepped in, the man controlled half of Vegas and a big chunk of New York. I can see war brewing there. Even now, as I run my eyes over a stack of news clippings and surveillance photos, elements are leaping out at me. Things that don’t bode well for Dario’s younger brother. The kid’s a goddamn hothead but I don’t want to see him in trouble. Especially since Whitlock’s latest ventures seem to be linking him in with the Irish mafia. Bad news if that’s the case. Those fuckers are brutal; they give the Russians a run for their money, and that’s saying a lot.
I reach for a marker and begin to draw lines, arrows…connecting more dots.
Jesus. Please don’t let Andy be getting involved in any of this shit.
“Don’t do it. Please…don’t fucking do it,” I say to the picture of her I have taped to the middle of my board. Not that she belongs there. So innocent in this whole damn shitstorm. But when it comes to my priorities right now, she’s front and center. She’s out there somewhere getting up to God knows what, and I can’t help her. Can’t do anything to keep her safe.
“For fuck’s sakes, Andy. Come back.”
Chapter 4
Andy Carter
Why hasn’t he called me back? Why, goddammit?
I pace across my shitty little apartment, hands on my hips, staring at the phone I’ve set on the coffee table. The coffee mug I’d initially used for cheap coffee is now filled with cheap vodka.
I’m evolving. Sue me.
Who could blame me, when I’ve spent days surrounded by human filth and misery? And two of those days have been spent waiting forhim.
Fucking Mark Whitlock hasn’t called me back.
It had taken every ounce of inner strength to dial the number my father had given me…only to have the call answered by one of his flunkies. Some goon who spoke in single syllables. I’d given my name. Said it was important. It didn’t make a difference.
“Tell him Andrea Carter wants to speak to him about his proposition. It’s urgent. He’ll know who it is. He’ll know what I’m talking about. Tell him I’ve…I’ve changed my mind.” I’d paused then. I’d been so sure he’d take my call. Pounce on the phone like a hungry jackal when he thought he’d get his hands on me. Instead, he’s left me waiting.
Two motherfucking days!
I grab my mug, sucking down a burning mouthful, aiming a baleful glare at the silent cellphone.
“Ring, goddamn you! Fucking ring already!” I yell. I spin around and pace, raking my hands through my hair, tugging at it. I give another wordless yell, frustration bubbling from me.
“Shut the fuck up!” the occupant of one of the neighboring apartments bellows. Poor bastard. The walls are paper thin. And I’ve been thumping around cursing for most of the day.
“Screw you!” I scream back. Not because I don’t empathize, but because I need some sort of outlet right now.
“Don’t make me fucking come over there,” the voice threatens. There are several thumps on the wall. Jesus. At this rate, he won’t have to come over. He’ll put a fist right through the plaster. And frankly, I don’t need more trouble right now.
I slump into my stinking chair, still staring at the phone on the table as I grasp my chipped mug in both hands. It’s been completely silent since I’ve had it. Why wouldn’t it be? I got it from a guy off a street corner in exchange for some of those banknotes that were still crisp when I got them.
A burner phone.
I’d felt like a fool when I’d asked for it. Like I’d been watching too many crime movies or something. But I can’t risk Mateo or anyone else tracking me down again. I can’t even risk sending a message to Nikki to let her know I’m okay. Although it kills me to realize it must be worrying her sick. It hurts me just as much to resist the urge to reach out to Mateo, too. I can’t. I just can’t. Either he’ll try to convince me to go back. Or he’ll tell me to fuck off.
Right now, I don’t know which would be harder to hear. At night, when I struggle to sleep on my piss-stained mattress, I can still imagine his arms around me. Some nights, I can only drift off with the lingering memory of his lips on my own. How safe he’d made me feel. How protected.
“He betrayed you, remember? Lied. He fucking lied!” I shake my head as I gulp down more vodka.
Great. Now I’m talking to myself.
Why not, though? Better than the dickhead next door. And it’s not like there’s any other company here, aside from the roaches and rats that still persist in overrunning the place. Not a word. Not a soul to speak to. To offload some of this rage that seems to be stewing like toxic sludge in my chest. No one—
