“Dark blue Charger. Government plates.”
Fuck.
“Could be unrelated. But I doubt it.”
“I doubt it too.” My hand tightens on the wheel. “Stay away for now. I’ll get Danny out, and we’ll reassess. But, Marco…”
“Yea?”
“This job might be done.”
He doesn’t answer. It’s not what he wants to hear, but he knows I’m right. We both do. I hang up.
Shit.
I postDanny’s bail at eight-fifteen. Ten thousand in cash. Someone else’s name on the bondsman’s form. Danny walks out of the courthouse with swollen fists and a cut over his eyebrow.
He spots my car and walks over with an embarrassed look on his face like a kid who knows he screwed up.
“The hell happened?” I ask as he gets in.
“Poker game in Chula Vista. Some punk accused me of cheating, and I just—look, he came at me first.”
“You broke his jaw,” I say, my voice tight. “This could blow up big on us.”
He sighs and stares at his feet. “Chris, look—”
“Two days, Danny. Two fucking days away from the biggest score of our lives, and you’re in a goddamn holding cell because you can’t keep your ass away from the tables.”
He scrubs his face with his palms. “I know, Chris. It was stupid.”
“It was reckless. Now we’ve got a Charger with government plates parked a block from the warehouse.”
Danny goes still, looking at me with serious concern. “Since when?”
“Showed up today. Could be a coincidence. Could be the start of something. Either way, this job is looking compromised.”
He stays quiet for a long time, working his jaw, tapping his fingers on his knee. “We can push it,” he says, grabbing for a wayout of the shit he’s gotten us into. “Two weeks. Let the heat die down, change the staging area.”
“Or we abort completely.”
His eyes narrow. He looks at me like I’m fucking crazy. “Abort? Chris, it’s three million. I’m talking Lisa’s new house. Marco’s bakery. Whatever the hell you spend your money on!” He studies me closely. Danny reads people the way I read alarm systems, and right now, he’s reading something I don’t want him to see. “What’s going on with you, anyway?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Fine? Bullshit,” he scoffs. “You’ve been different since the last meet. Distracted. I called your regular phone twice and you didn’t pick up.”
Did he really? Shit. I didn’t even realize.
“I was busy.”
“Busy? In that empty house of yours with no furniture, no TV—” he stops, and I watch a flicker of understanding wash over his face. “No fucking way. There’s a woman.”
I want to protest, but how can I? He’s got me dead to rights.
“You? Mister No Attachments? We’re two days away from a job that could set us up for life and you’re busy playing house with some chick?” He shakes his head. My muscles tighten. My fingers ball into fists. “This is how people get caught, Chris. Get killed. You fall for someone and you lose your edge—”
“You wanna lecture me?” I snap. If he was anyone else, I would have hit him. “I just bailed your ass out of jail for a fistfight that jeopardized the entire score!”
