Page 103 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

Amai answered with a roar of background noise—the screech of tires, loud voices, and the heavy rack of a shotgun slide.

“Truth, I can’t talk right now!” Amai yelled over the phone, his breathing ragged. “Some shit is popping off on Broad—I sent somebody to lock you and the baby down! Stay put ’til they get there and don’t open the door for nobody else—Priest, get that truck moving!”

Click.

The line went dead.

Truth looked up from the screen, her chest heaving, the color drained from her cheeks.

Amai’s clipped, frantic words had done all my work for me. He thought he was telling her to wait for his own tactical team, but in her ears, standing three feet from his brother, it was absolute confirmation.

“Where is he meeting us?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly as she turned toward the stairs.

“Safe location downriver,” I told her, following close behind. “Just grab the diaper bag and the baby’s essentials, Truth. I have everything else waiting.”

The drive south out of Orleans Parish took twenty-two minutes.

Truth sat in the passenger seat with her arm turned backward, resting her fingers against the edge of Trumai’s car seat. The baby was sleeping peacefully, cocooned in a pink fleece blanket against the hum of the Audi’s engine.

“Why are we heading past Chalmette’s?” Truth asked, her gaze fixed on the dark industrial landscape through the tinted window. “Amai usually uses the safe house on Esplanade, or the Sanctum out past Kenner.”

“Esplanade is compromised,” I lied easily, keeping two hands on the wheel at ten and two. “And the Sanctum is where Amai is bringing the shooters he catches tonight. He doesn’t want you or Trumai anywhere near that blood.”

Truth swallowed hard. She turned her head, looking at the dark marshes of St. Bernard Parish flashing by beneath the amber streetlights. “I hate this. I hate that every time I think we can breathe, someone else comes out of the dark, trying to kill him.”

“I know, sweetheart,” I said, my voice rich with genuine sympathy. “Amai’s life is an endless loop of violence. It never stops. You build a wall, someone digs a tunnel. You kill a man, his brother picks up the gun. That’s who he is.”

She didn’t answer. She just rubbed her temple, staring out into the night.

We pulled through the rusted double gates of the private shipyard, past the abandoned shipping containers and the dark silhouette of the crane yard. I drove directly to the edge of the private berth where The Freedom sat tied to the heavy concrete pylons.

The riverboat looked majestic against the black water of the Mississippi. Warm amber light spilled through the frosted salon windows on the main deck, reflecting like gold across the current.

Truth looked at the vessel, startled. “A boat?”

“A mobile sanctuary,” I corrected gently, putting the car in park and cutting the headlights. “Radar jamming, satellite communications, steel-reinforced hull, and zero land-based entry points. Amai approved it weeks ago. Nobody tracks river traffic.”

I stepped out, walked around to the passenger side, and opened her door. I reached into the back and unclipped Trumai’s carrier, lifting the baby with careful, practiced grace.

“Let me carry her,” Truth said, reaching out.

“Take the diaper bag, sweetheart,” I said, offering her my warmest smile. “The gangway is narrow. Let me make sure she’s safe.”

She looked at me for a second, something hesitant flickering behind her dark brown eyes, but the cool night wind off the river made her shiver. She grabbed the canvas bag, stepped out, and followed me up the gangway.

The heavy steel hatch of the main salon opened with a soft, pneumatic hiss.

The interior was warm, smelling of polished mahogany, fresh-cut gardenias, and clean lavender linen. The climate control was set to a perfect seventy degrees.

“Where’s the security team?” Truth asked, stepping into the salon and looking around the empty, immaculate room.

“Down below in the crew quarters,” I answered, setting Trumai’s carrier carefully onto the center leather ottoman.

Behind her, I reached out and pulled the heavy steel salon hatch closed. The magnetic lock engaged with a solid, echoing thunk.

Truth walked over to the ottoman, bending down to check Trumai’s blanket.

Below our feet, a deep, heavy vibration rolled through the steel decking. The twin marine diesel engines roared to life, a low, powerful thrum that made the crystal glasses in the wet bar clink softly against each other.