“Maybe so.” Brit opened the door, turned back. “I don’t want to be responsible for killing an innocent man.”
As she made her way down the hallway, tears pricked her eyes. The mix of emotions charging through her had her guts churning. Her heart felt like a chunk of lead in her chest.
I need my sister.
Even though she and Addison were close, her sister had no idea what shereallydid. And since she just quit, it kinda didn’t matter.
It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon.
Back in the lobby, she texted Addison. “Hey, so I’m in town! I know it’s last minute, but can I crash with you?”
As she was making her way outside, Addison called.
“Hey,” Brit answered.
“We’re having that sister connection again,” Addison said. “I was just thinking about you. Of course, you can stay with us. I’m on my way home, but if you get there first, let yourself in. We added you to the security system. I’m so excited to see you! I can’t wait to hear about your art show.”
The line went dead.
Brit called for a rideshare. En route to Addison and Hawk’s Alexandria townhome, she stared out the window, trying to sort through the past several hours.
She wasn’t in town for an art show, so she’d have to come up with a believable story. It wasn’t the first time she lied to her sister, but it was definitely the last.
A sudden sadness settled into her soul. She loved her job. Maybe Z had been right. She’d always been impulsive, making decisions in the heat of the moment.
There’s no going back now. I’m just going to have to find a new job.
Joaquin
Rebel droveto the front of the boutique hotel and stopped at the valet stand. Before he could exit his Porsche 911, an attendant hurried over and opened his car door.
“Welcome back, Mr. Dillinger,” said the valet.
Rebel handed the valet a folded bill. “Been busy tonight?”
“Always. I’ll park your car in your spot.” The attendant squeezed into the two-seater as Rebel made his way toward the front door.
He was in no mood to socialize, but he promised his cousin he’d meet him for a drink. Kurt had wanted to talk to him about something and Rebel had already canceled on him once.
Rebel had spent the flight back to DC obsessing over the perp in the hoodie. Was he in a rival gang? Who tipped him off that they were meeting? Too many questions and zero answers.
By the time he landed in DC, frustration coursed through him. Rather than head to the office—where he’d get a ration of shit—he’d gone home and checked work emails. He’d assumed his handler had already updated the Special Agent managing the fentanyl case, so he was surprised there weren’t any emails, voice messages, or even texts about what had gone down.
Not a single one.
It was like that cluster fuck had never even happened.
Rather than complete the myriad of required paperwork, he’d sent his boss a simple email. “Got time to meet tomorrow?”
Later that afternoon, he heard back. “Sure. 1 p.m.”
He couldn’t fucking wait.
Snapping back to the present, Rebel entered the hotel that bore his name.
Hotel Dillinger
Small, by hotel standards, the two-hundred-room building offered guests a relaxing stay near Dupont Circle in Northwest DC.
