“This is going to get us all killed,” he said.
“That’s right,” Clay said. He cupped the back of Grade’s neck in one hand and gave him a light shake. “Stay positive.”
Grade pulled a face but didn’t squirm away. He took a deep breath.
“It’s too late to change the plan now, anyhow,” he said. “I already told Hadley I have the money.”
Something raw throbbed down in the folds of Clay’s brain. He could feel it, like a scab picked off an old cut. How many times had he given this pep talk to an asset or a collaborator before he sent them into a setup?
“Your sister is going to be fine,” he told Grade. The words felt weird in his mouth, like someone else had the steering wheel and he just got to watch. “I got this.”
Ithadbeen true more often than not. Clay was good at his job. The rest of his life might be a hot mess navigated by pills and not giving a fuck, but give him a gun and an objective and he was solid. Not always, though.
The woman was screaming so hard the corners of her mouth had split. She had bloody rags and straps clutched in her arms.
Just rags. Clay grabbed Ezra’s wrist as Ezra dragged him away from the fire and dug his fingers in. He didn’t want—couldn’t afford—to let his brain map all those bits together.
The boy was gone. That was all.
Clay rubbed his side absently as the scar tissue convulsed with an itch that dug down between his ribs. This was a job. It wouldn’t help to tell Grade that this was his best chance to get his sister back but that didn’t mean it would work. Grade already knew that; he wasn’t stupid.
“Ready?” Clay asked.
Grade hesitated for a second. Then he suddenly leaned in, one hand twisted in Clay’s T-shirt, and pressed a quick, breathy kiss on Clay’s mouth. Grade was strung so tight that Clay could feel the tension against his lips like a plucked wire. That was not a first either, but itfeltlike one somehow.
“If I die, do not bury me in Sweeny,” Grade said. He stepped back and gave Clay a tight, uneasy smile. “Just in case.”
Sure,” Clay said. “Too good even in death to hang out with us.”
“Yeah,” Grade said. “That’s right.”
He swung the bag onto his shoulder and lifted his phone off the dresser. Hadley hadn’t texted again since he’d sent the address for the drop. Cave Lock Dam. The same place that Arlo’s dad had taken TJ and, Clay supposed, Elizabeth once upon a time.
“You know, in LA, there are scenic places to do this sort of thing,” Grade said. “Near pho restaurants. Do crimeandhave a nice meal. Practically a date.”
Clay stepped behind Grade and gave him a shove toward the door. “Go,” he said. “When we get out of this, I’llmakeyou pho.”
“A nice meal,” Grade said over his shoulder. “Not food poisoning.”
“I’m a good cook,” Clay called after him as Grade closed the door behind him. It was true. He didn’t usually cook for his hookups—they were there for a hot mess and a wild ride, not dinner, and he was OK with that—but Ezra’s kids never complained.
His brain considered that and decided the appropriate response was another highlight reel of his greatest fuckup.
The music was turned up so loud that it sounded like it filled the fucking desert. Taylor Swift. It was a pirated copy, pulled down off YouTube, and the sound was flat and tinny. Who cared. It was turned up as high as the stereo went, and Ezra was hung out the passenger window, drunk and merry, as he sang along to someone else’s screwed-up love life.
It made a nice change.
Clay took a swig of vodka from a water bottle. He wasn’t drunk, just loose.
Ahead, he saw someone he knew run up to the road, arms in the air as they waved him down.
Someone he knew.
Clay snorted as he grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on. Yeah, that was typical. His brain tried to play the hard man on him, filled his mouth with the taste of vodka and the grit of sand, but pussied out when it came to the money shot.
Khalid.
His name was Khalid.
