The Resurrection (Unlawful Men)

Closing the door quietly, I glance at my watch as I walk through the house, reaching the top of the stairs to find Danny emerging from the corridor that leads to his office, his hands in the back of his jeans where he’s inevitably just tucked his gun. And to demonstrate that I’m on the same page, I pull mine out and check the magazine.

“Ready?” he asks on a knowing smile, going to the door and pulling it open.

“Are you?” I counter, passing him, not bothering to tuck my gun away. I’ll feel better with it in my hand.

“I’m ready,” he confirms, falling into stride beside me, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “It’s a blinding morning to go out on the water.”

“I agree.” We arrive at the Merc. “I assume you’re driving.”

“Would you rather?” he asks, all civil and nice, letting a small smile loose as he holds up the keys.

“No, I’d rather admire the view.” I swing the door open, falling into the seat, and rest my gun on my thigh. Nothing would make me relinquish my hold. “Lovely day yesterday,” I muse, seeing the tent still up, the balloons framing the entrance now looking droopy and sad, some gone completely. I allow a secret smile, remembering Beau stabbing at them with the heel of her shoe, slurring cop talk. Freeze, motherfucker. Don’t move. Stay exactly where you are. Bang. Bang. Bang.

And banging is going to be her head when she wakes up. “Put your foot down,” I say quietly, as Danny crawls along the drive to the gates.

“You in a hurry?”

“Yeah. As it happens, I am.”

“She was pretty wasted last night.”

I feel him looking across the car at me, but I keep my eyes forward, seeing one of his men come out of the gatehouse and hold a hand up. Beau was more than wasted. She was fucking obliterated. “A lot on her mind.” I’m not telling him anything he doesn’t already know.

“Haven’t we all,” he replies quietly, returning his attention to the road and accelerating once we’re out of the mansion’s grounds.

The drive is silent, uncomfortably so, both of us clearly distracted. That’s not a good thing. Being distracted is never a good thing.

As we rumble down the dirt track toward the boatyard, I instinctively scope the overgrowth, on my guard.

“What’s up?” Danny asks, obviously sensing my cautiousness.

“Something doesn’t feel right.” My hand flexes around the handle of my gun, my eyes high and low.

He chuckles, and it’s fucking irritating. “In our world, James, we should always be on our guard.”

I exhale, turning a cold look his way. “And isn’t that the fucking point?” I ask, taming my twitching trigger finger. “I don’t want to be on my guard anymore.” I don’t want to be full of worry every time I leave Beau’s side. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder constantly. Doubting everyone. Suspicious of everything. It’s fucking exhausting, and I resent having to waste my energy on it when I could be using that energy elsewhere. Like on Beau. On life, not fucking death all the time.

“It’s a settling notion, isn’t it?” he says as we roll to a stop by the cabin. “Imagining a life without danger.” Looking across at me, he turns in his seat slightly. “I had it for three years. I highly recommend it. And I would do anything to get it back.”

I nod, understanding him, and take the handle of the door, getting out and breathing in the fresh morning air, as Danny gets out and lights up. “Which one is Brunelli in?” I ask, scanning the containers.

“Don’t do it,” he warns, blowing out the smoke, the heat hitting the cool air creating a dense cloud above his head. “He’s Goldie’s. We agreed.”

“Which one,” I ask again, my words tight.

He points with his cigarette, his head shaking mildly as he takes an extra-long drag of his smoke. “The green one.”

I stalk toward the green container, my pace even, my heart rate surprisingly steady. “I’ll leave him breathing,” I call back, noting the padlock on the door. A padlock that’s unlocked. I look back at Danny. He’s leaning against the bonnet of his Merc, puffing his way through his cigarette.

“Hurry up,” he shouts over. “I want to get out on the water.”

I take the handle, slowly pull open the door, and scan the inside. No Brunelli. I’m not surprised. But the Heckler pressed into my forehead?

Now that’s another story.

28

BEAU

* * *

Oh, good God. I squint my eyes open, feeling like I’ve got a mouthful of sand and someone stamping on my head. My face is squished into the pillow, my hands buried beneath. I shift. It hurts, my tiny movement creating a tremor that seems to sail through me and finish in my head with a bang.