“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Grade fumbled with the shotgun he’d grabbed as he tried to look for the trigger and scramble backward at the same time. The warped driver’s side door was shouldered open from the inside, and Sloane scrambled awkwardly out.
He braced himself against the car as he pointed a submachine gun at Grade’s head.
“I remember you,” he said, his voice distorted like the bass on a low-end speaker. Grade had to struggle to hear him. “The pretty boy.”
He winked and raised his voice.
“Gun—down!” he yelled. It should have helped, but it made static burst in Grade’s ears like popping candy. He got the gist, though, as Sloane limped forward, kicked the shotgun away, and braced a plastic boot against Grade’s chest. “Or I’ll blow—boyfriend a new—see how you like him then. One! —! Th—”
He didn’t get to finish the count. The shotgun blast hit Sloane in the stomach and knocked him off his feet. He slammed back into the wrecked car and then sprawled there as he wheezed. The vest had taken most of the impact, but not all. Blood bloomed on his shoulders and stomach where buckshot had gone under the Kevlar shield or through the straps.
Buchanan, shotgun clumsily braced on his broken wrist, stumbled forward over the smashed down wall. He offered his good hand to Grade.
“I saved your life,” he said. “How about you help me get out of here? We can call it even.”
§
It was over.
Fisher’s men were gone, Grade’s professional reputation was intact, and if Fisher was pissed off that Buchanan had gotten away… the fact he had Elizabeth, once they picked her up from the hospital, and all the bitcoin they’d bought with his money had to be some consolation. Even TJ had been handed back over once Nesmith didn’t need him anymore.
“You made the right call,” Dory said. She set the coffee on the table in front of Grade and slid into the chair opposite him. Her hands were curled around a gaudy pink-and-yellow Lisa Frank unicorn mug she’d had since she was ten. The rim was chipped, and the handle had been glued back on, but Dad had bought it for her, so it was her cup. “Buchanan was an asshole, but he saved your life. I’ll take a split lip over a dead brother… and maybe he’ll get away somewhere, be a better person.”
Grade took a drink of coffee. It was pretty gross. He didn’t know what Dory did to perfectly good ground coffee to make the machine spit this stuff out.
“Do you really think Dad’s alive?” he asked. “Out there, on the run like Buchanan.”
She turned the coffee mug in her hands as she looked down into it. “Sometimes,” she admitted quietly. “On good days.”
“Sounds nice,” Grade said.
She shrugged and took a drink of coffee. “It means I still worry about him,” she said. “If he’s OK. If he misses us. Sometimes, even when it’s shit, I put up stuff on social media about how great my life is. So he doesn’t worry if he looks us up.”
Grade bit his tongue. He was trying to be nice, and this time he’d brought Dad up. That meant he didn’t get to argue about how her version of their dad was an asshole.
“Will the Choke be OK?” he asked. “If you take a few days off?”
She shrugged. “Yeah,” she said. “I can get some of my friends to cover, but I might just go in. I’d rather be doing something than just sit here and think about… stuff. You can’t think and keep the beat. Did you know that?”
Grade shook his head. “I did not.” He hesitated for a second and then set the coffee down. “Are you OK? I have… I’ve some stuff to sort out.”
“I’m fine,” Dory said. “Mom’s here.”
Grade nodded and got up. He kissed the top of her head before he left. Like Dad used to do.
He was halfway out the door when she cleared her throat.
“Itwasthe right call,” she said. “You wouldn’t get away with it a second time.”
“I might,” Grade said. “I’m better at it now.”
He locked the door behind him, just in case, and put his hand in his pocket to jangle Clay’s stolen keys. That was as good an excuse—reason—as any for going to Clay’s house. Grade would need to give the car back sooner or later after all.
It didn’t mean anything.
§
