The dead man’s switch is our heavy hitter, but witnesses are a form of insurance, too.
I look at the scar on my cheek, that two-inch streak of silver Dex is responsible for putting on my face. I deliberately avoided covering it with makeup tonight. I want Gio to see it, and the scars on my arm, too. I want him to see that I’ve already been through hell. I doubt he’ll feel any guilt for what his partner did to me, but I hope my scars will give me street cred, that they’ll prove I’m not kidding when I explain what will go down if anything happens to Plato, me, or anyone we love.
Back in the room, Plato is out of his chair, taking his turn staring down at the street below.
We set up a camera on the window ledge this afternoon to record my meeting with Gio and the street in front of both the coffee shop and the gym. If they try something sketchy, we’ll get it on tape. Plato’s recording to his laptop and to a remote folder somewhere, for extra insurance.
It might be too late for insurance to make any difference for me personally at that point, but…
Refusing to think about that, I pull on my jean jacket and reach for the backpack. “Everything’s set in here, right?”
Plato turns from the window, nodding. “Yep, my laptop, the external drive, and both our old phones. That’s everything. Though once you give Gio the news about the dead man’s switch, they might not care about destroying the hardware.” More of the color drains from his face as he adds, “Be careful after you tell him, Clover. He’s not going to be happy.”
I nod. “I know. But I’ll make him see that it’s the only thing that makes sense to ensure everyone honors their part of the bargain. And I’ll make sure he believes me when I say that as long as they’re ready to forget this happened, we are, too.”
My sad, stressed-as-hell friend crosses the room, pulling me in for a hug. “Okay. Be careful. I wish they’d let me do this part. I don’t like that they insisted on it being you.”
“Well, if they think I’ll be an easier target, they’re wrong,” I say, squeezing him tight. I pull back, adding with a forced smile, “I’m way scarier than you are.”
His lips twitch, but a smile doesn’t form. “Yeah, you are. Don’t take any shit, and I’ll see you soon.”
“See you soon,” I agree. “And again, I’m so sorry.”
“Stop.” He shakes his head. “Just go get it done and then head to the rendezvous point. I’ll pack up everything here and meet you there in fifteen minutes tops.”
I nod. “And we’ll celebrate.”
“We will,” he says, but I can tell he doesn’t believe it.
He’s deeply spooked. So am I, but I can’t give up hope. I have too much to stay hopeful for. That’s the funny thing about death threats and Trouble with a capital T. It really puts your average, everyday fears in perspective, while underlining the things that matter in permanent ink.
I’m no longer afraid of dating a man with children, or falling in love with him and his girls, or all the sacrifices I’ll have to make to be the woman they need me to be. Right now, the only thing that scares me is the thought of never getting to hug Ava or Bella again, never getting to laugh with them in the kitchen, never drifting off to sleep again in Dean’s arms.
Promising myself that the future isn’t lost, that I can still get it back, I push through the mustard yellow door into the hallway. A few minutes later, I’m down the stairs, through the lobby, and stepping out into the chilly New Orleans night.
I cross the street before starting toward the coffee shop, ensuring as much of my journey is captured on camera as possible. I take deep breaths, filling my belly and exhaling slowly, doing my best to focus on the task at hand.
I push Dean and the girls from my thoughts.
There will be time to think about them later.
Hopefully, to think about them every day for the rest of my life.
It’s my last thought before thick arms close around me from behind, and I’m hauled backward into the dark alley beside the club.
Looks like I’m not going to make it to the coffee shop.
Not now, and maybe not ever.
Twenty-Four
CLOVER
One second,I’m focused on the rhythmic thump-thump of my boots on the pavement, and trying not to freak out about my first meeting with an international drug dealer who’s probably willing to do just about anything to shut me up.
The next, there’s a giant hand over my mouth, stifling my screams as the backpack falls to the ground, and I’m dragged off my feet and off the largely abandoned sidewalk.
There were a few people ahead of me waiting at the bus stop, I think, but I have no idea if any of them saw me get snatched. And even if they did, there’s a good chance they’ll pretend they didn’t.
