“I don’t know who this girl is,” the man says and if he’s lying, he doesn’t show it. “For all I know she could be an undercover cop.”
Jackson rolls his eyes. “If you’re implying that she’s an undercover cop then you’re implying that our boss is stupid enough to let an undercover cop work for him. And even though you’re enemies, I think you know he isn’t stupid enough to let a cop into his circle. He does more background checks than anyone.”
The man mulls over what Jackson said, his gaze bouncing back and forth between Jackson and me. “Fine, the girl can go. But I’m going to have to pat her down. In fact, I need to pat down all of you.”
Jackson nods, shooting me a quick apologetic look. “Just make sure your hands don’t wander.”
The man’s eyes narrow. “Despite my colleagues, I don’t disrespect women.”
Out of all the stuff I’ve heard tonight, that comment just might surprise me the most. But I restrain my shock, keeping a neutral face.
The man motions for me to step forward and I reluctantly obey. Then he instructs me to span my arms out to my sides and spread my legs. I do what I’m told, even though I don’t want to, and let him pat down my body.
He keeps his word and doesn’t cop a feel.
When he’s finished patting down the three of us, he steps back, hikes over to the car, and opens the back door. “The girl can go, but she’s not to speak to my boss unless he directly speaks to her. Got it?”
Jackson nods his head then walks forward, pulling me along with him. Wilder follows, keeping close. When we reach the car, Jackson releases my hand to duck inside. I tentatively follow, noting that the man gives me a strange look. Not a look of sudden remembrance, but a look of concern.
My mind is racing with ideas of what the look could mean, but I soon get distracted as I get inside the car. The first thing I note is that the vehicle is a lot larger than it appears from outside with two bench seats facing each other. It kind of reminds me of a limo, only not quite as big and a window doesn’t divide the back from the front. Then my attention lands on the man dressed in a black suit, sitting in the far back seat of the car right across from Jackson. He’s older, probably in his late fifties with grey and black hair and a beard to match. He has a cane propped against his leg and a cigar in his hand. And he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to see me, unlike the man outside.
“Please, dear, have a seat,” he instructs, gesturing at the spot beside him.
Ummm…
I glance at Jackson for help, but he silently pleads with me to comply. So, sucking in a discreet breath, I lower my butt onto the seat and sit down beside the drug lord.
A Message
As I situate in the seat, I take in my surroundings. A large, beast of a man sits in the driver’s seat, and his could-be doppelganger takes up the passenger seat. The windows are tinted, making it nearly impossible to see outside, and the floor has a dark brown stain on it that reminds me of dried blood, but that could just be my imagination getting the best of me. Still, my muscles lock up and adrenaline pours through my veins. I’m not necessarily afraid though, which is weird. No, I feel more nervous, edgy, and too distracted by everything going on around me.
The drug lord takes a puff from the cigar and releases the smoke from his lips. The smell is anything but pleasant but since my father occasionally smoked, I’m sort of used to it.
“Do you smoke?” the drug lord asks me, lifting his cigarette.
I shake my head. “No. Not cigars anyway.” Which is kind of true.
Once in middle school when Alexis found a pack of cigarettes, she talked me into trying one with her. I took a drag and puked all over my favorite pair of shoes. I was so mad at her for talking me into it, but even more angrier with myself for being curious enough to try them.
“That’s perfectly all right.” He ashes the cigar in an ashtray. “A beautiful girl like you shouldn’t be putting such toxins into her body anyway.” He winks at me.
I force a smile, but the way he’s looking at me makes my skin crawl.
Jackson catches my gaze, as if he’s trying to send me a message, but I can’t figure out what. Then Wilder ducks into the car with us and Jackson clears his throat. Wilder pauses as he notes the seating arrangement but quickly recovers from his shock and drops down into the seat beside Jackson.
The doors close and the car begins to drive forward.
“So, what’d I miss?” Wilder asks, propping his foot up onto his knee.
“I was just telling your lovely lady here that she’s too beautiful to be smoking.” The drug lord reaches to the side of him.
Jackson tenses, his fingers inching toward the pocket where his knife is hidden. But he stops when the drug lord produces a wooden box filled with cigars.
“However, you gentlemen aren’t nearly as lovely.” the drug lord urges the box at them. “So please, have a smoke with me and lets chat.”
I flinch at the mention of chat, but luckily no one seems to notice.
Jackson and Wilder each collect a cigar, light up, and take a puff. They exhale the smoke smoothly, clearly having done this before. But with the three of them now smoking, I’m having a difficult time not hacking. I smash my lips together, stifling a cough and wishing the maddening silence would go away.
“So gentlemen, I’m sure you’re wondering why I brought you all the way out here?” the drug lord finally says, reclining back in the seat.
“Honestly, a little,” Jackson replies, removing the cigar from between his lips. “As flattering as it’s been to have the famous Axel Marelli track us down in such a creative way, we really would like to know what the end point is to this whole charade.”
The drug lord—Axel—smiles. “My end point. What if there isn’t one?”
“Then I’d say you went through a lot of trouble just to mess with our heads,” Jackson replies, lifting the cigar toward his mouth. “And although I don’t know you personally, I’ve heard e
nough stories about you to comfortably state that that doesn’t really seem like your style.
“No, it doesn’t.” Axel’s expression and appearance is collected except for the restless way he taps his pinkie against his knee.
My dad taught me how to play poker once and said almost everyone has a tell, a thing that gives away what they’re thinking. I wonder if that’s Axel’s tell, if underneath his cool demeanor, lies an uneasiness.
“It’s my circle’s crest.” Axel moves his hand over toward me, showing me the gold ring on his pinkie, completely misreading why I was staring at his hand.
“It’s pretty,” I somehow manage to lie flawlessly and give myself a mental high-five.
Truthfully, the ring is hideous and tacky, thick and gold and engraved with the same mark I saw tattooed on Goatee Guy. Again, I’m struck with the sense of familiarity by the mark, but still can’t figure out why.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Axel studies the ring momentarily before slipping it off his pinkie. “You know what. Keep it. It’ll look better on you anyway.” Before I can even work up a good protest, he takes my hand and slides the ring onto the finger beside my pinkie—you know, the finger where my engagement ring would go, should I ever get engaged. Then he holds up my hand to observe. “It looks much better on your delicate hands than it does on mine.” He holds up his hand in front of me. “These hands have seen many years of work and they may be old and ugly, but I’m proud of the things they’ve accomplished. Every decision I’ve ever had to make, both hard and easy, these hands have been with me. They’ve helped me carry out every task I’ve ever needed to accomplish.”
I force a stiff smile, giving a quick sidelong glance at Jackson and Wilder, who are tensely watching the scene unfold.
Axel gives my hand a squeeze, drawing my attention back to him. “Don’t worry, you’ll be able to go to them soon. But right now, I need you to do something for me.” Then he leans in toward me. My breath catches in my throat, fear coursing through my veins, as he puts his lips beside my ear and whispers, “Tell me, what is your name?”