I pushed the door open. It groaned but gave. I half-fell out of the truck onto the grass.
My house was two blocks away. I could see it from here if I looked past the gathering crowd.
Two blocks. Close enough that I should have been home already. Close enough that Troy was probably wondering where I was.
I needed my phone.
I reached back into the truck and found it wedged between the seat and the center console. The screen was cracked, but it still worked.
I pulled up Troy's number and hit call.
He answered on the first ring. “Declan? Where the fuck are you? Security said you left work an hour ago. You should've been home by now.”
“My brakes failed. Two blocks from the house. Near the park.”
There was silence on the other end for a beat. “Are you hurt?”
“Yeah. But I'm alive.” I leaned against the truck and tried to catch my breath. “Troy, this wasn't an accident. Someone cut my brakes.”
“Stay where you are. I'm coming to get you.” He was already moving. I could hear it in his voice. “Dmitri! We need to move now!”
The call ended.
I stood there shaking while the people crowded closer. A woman in a business suit kept asking if I was okay. A kid with his phone out was filming the whole thing. An older man was trying to direct the traffic around the scene.
“Sir, you should sit down,” the woman said. “You're bleeding.”
I touched my forehead. My fingers came away red. I must have hit my head on something during the impact, adding another injury to the collection.
“I'm fine,” I said. It wasn't true, but I needed these people to back off, needed the space to think.
“The ambulance is on the way,” someone else called out. “Just hang tight.”
Fuck. I didn't need an ambulance. Didn't need the police reports or the insurance claims or any official record of what had just happened. Because if this was sabotage, if someone had deliberately cut my brakes, then getting the authorities involved would just complicate everything.
Troy and his people operated outside the normal channels for a reason. Adding the police to the mix would only slow them down.
I heard an engine roar. Tires squealing. Then Dmitri's black SUV came around the corner going too fast and pulled up onto the sidewalk near my wrecked truck.
Troy was out before the vehicle fully stopped. He pushed through the crowd without apologizing, his eyes locked on me with an intensity that made my chest feel tight.
“Declan.” He grabbed my face and turned my head to check the cut on my forehead. His hands were shaking. “Are you okay?”
“I'm fine. Just shaken up.”
“You're bleeding.”
“Head wounds always bleed more than they should. I'm fine.” I caught his wrists and held on. “Troy, my brakes were completely gone.”
His expression went hard. “Someone cut the lines.”
“Yeah.”
Dmitri appeared beside us. He took one look at my truck and swore in Russian. Then he turned to the crowd. “Everyone back up. Give him some space. The show is over.”
“We need to get you out of here before the ambulance arrives,” Dmitri said to me. “And before the police show up asking questions.”
“The truck needs to be towed,” I said.
