Jake steps closer, his eyes searching mine. “Can you? This isn’t some bar fight or pissing match with local dealers, Wren. These guys are stone-cold killers.”
I clench my jaw, anger and fear warring in my gut. “What the fuck am I supposed to do, Jake? Let them keep John? He might be a worthless drunk, but he’s still my father.”
He sighs, shoulders slumping. “I know, I know. Just… be careful, alright? Go in smart. And if things go sideways, you get the hell out of there.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As I turn to leave, Jake’s voice stops me.
“Wren,” he says softly. I glance back, seeing a mixture of concern and regret on his face. “For what it’s worth… I’m sorry. About everything.”
I swallow hard, pushing down the lump in my throat. “Yeah,” I manage. “Me too.”
I stride out of the apartment, the gun a heavy weight against my back. The address burns a hole in my pocket, a ticking time bomb of possibilities. My phone buzzes—another text from Em.
Where are you? What’s going on?
My fingers fly across the screen:
Em, I’ll explain when I’ve got all the shit together. Grab Lenny and crash at Tasha’s. No questions.
I hit send and hope for the best. No way in hell Em will leave it at that, but right now, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
The sky’s bleeding a dirty orange, like the sunset is throwing up. I hit the street, scanning every shadow and face for any sign of trouble.
Jake’s warning echoes in my head.Stone-cold killers. Not some punk-ass local thugs.I stuff my hands in my pockets to stop them from shaking. The gun presses against my back, a cold reminder of what I’m up against.
I start walking, no real destination in mind. Just need to move, to think. My mind’s racing, trying to piece together a plan that doesn’t end with me in a body bag.
A car backfires down the street, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Get it together, Wren.
I force myself to take a deep breath, but it comes out shaky.
Maybe I should calm down a bit. Rushing in half-cocked is gonna get me killed, or worse, get John killed. I need more info. Need to know what I’m dealing with.
I duck into an alley, leaning against the brick wall. My hands are trembling as I pull out my phone again. D’s number stares back at me. I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Come on, D,” I mutter, pacing the narrow alley. “Pick up the fucking phone.”
Voicemail. Shit.
I end the call, frustration bubbling up in my chest. A cramp twists in my gut, sharp and sudden. Nerves, probably. Or maybe it’s my body telling me this whole thing is a fucking terrible idea.
I dial again.
Fuck. He’s not answering.
I slam my hand against the wall, pain shooting through my knuckles. Great. Now my hand hurts, and I still don’t have any help.
I stare at my phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard. What the hell do I even say? “Hey D, my deadbeat dad got himself kidnapped by the Russian mafia. Wanna help me rescue his sorry ass?”
I’m not fucking stupid. It’s time to stop playing the Lone Ranger and ask for some goddamn help. Remember what I told Sophia?“It ain’t a crime to lean on people now and then.”Time to practice what I preach.
Okay, taking a deep breath, I type out a message, delete it, type again. Finally, I settle on something:
D. Shit’s gone sideways. John’s in trouble. Might need backup. Call me ASAP.
