The Brit

Brad let’s out a sigh, crouching down beside me, looking around to make sure we’re out of earshot. “Len checked in earlier. I was on my way to tell you, but the bomb . . . ” He picks up a piece of wood and looks it over before casting it aside on another sigh. “Adams is taking calls from a burner phone. Untraceable. His bank accounts are bone dry. All of them.”

“We didn’t tell Adams we were going to the hospital,” I say out of the blue, gazing around at the carnage. I can feel Brad’s questioning eyes on me, so I go on. “Whoever was at the hospital wasn’t there to shoot me. They were shooting at the kid because he’s in their way too. So whoever Adams has breathing down his neck wants my marina, and, like me, they want Adams in power. They want Miami.” It’s like the explosion didn’t only light up the sky, it also lit up my mind. “They know I won’t release Adams. They probably haven’t got thirty-five million to pay me off, plus whatever more cash they need to continue bankrolling Adams, so the only way for them is to see me dead. It’s easy. Cheap. The question is, who and what are they planning on getting into the country through my boatyard?”

“Easy? To kill you?” Brad almost laughs. “You’re still standing, Danny. Just.”

I hear him. He’s telling me, in an indirect kind of way, that I need my wits about me. I always need my wits about me. Pops was right. Women are nothing but a distraction. “Get Adams here. It’s time for some torture tactics.”

“With fucking pleasure.” He’s off, heading back to the house. Keen, eager.

I’ve put Brad through a hell of a lot of shit in his life. And in this last month, more than he’s used to. But he’s still fucking angry that I thought it was a good plan to kill the kid. He’s still enraged that I put myself at risk like that. So, yeah, he’s pissed. And this task will be a release of pressure for him. Have at it.

“When you do shit, Danny, you do it in style.”

I look up and find Spittle kicking remnants of my terrace aside, his shiny shoes dull with dust. He looks up at my mansion. “You’re lucky. They could have taken out the entire house.”

Lucky? My private suite is obliterated and I nearly lost Rose. Rising to my full height, I turn away from him and head for the house. “You going to find out who did this?”

“I was hoping you might be able to enlighten me.” Spittle follows me without invitation, taking a hanky from his suit pocket when he makes it inside. Sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, he wipes at his shoes.

“Do I look like an FBI agent to you?” I ask. “You think I would be here now if I knew who just sent a bomb sailing into my bedroom?”

He grimaces at his blackened hanky and folds it neatly. I head toward my office, my mind set on the Scotch awaiting me. I take the bottle and two glasses and drop into my chair, Spittle joining me on the other side of my desk. I hold up a glass and he nods, prompting me to pour. Passing him his glass, I sink back into my chair as Brad walks in, helping himself to the hard stuff after giving me a nod. It’s going to be a bloody afternoon.

“Is your house being partially blown up anything to do with the shoot-out in Fort Lauderdale?” Spittle asks. “Because you may have cut CCTV, but I know you were there.”

“Nothing to do with me.”

He sips and nods his approval at the Scotch. “Not the shoot-out, no. Officers chased down the gunman a few miles away.”

I hitch an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“He won’t talk.”

“Give him to me,” I order. “He’ll talk.” I’ll torture the fucker until he gives me what I want.

“Nothing to do with you? Come on, Danny. Why were you there?”

I sigh, bored of the twenty questions. “There’s a kid there. Jepson. Parents just died in a plane crash. He survived. Someone wants him dead.”

“A kid? Who? And why?”

“Just get the kid protection, Spittle, there’s a good boy.” I don’t have time to fill in all the blanks. “The man, the shooter. Let us pay him a visit.” They’ll be no torture, but there will be threats galore. “And then maybe I’ll give you something more to keep you busy.” As soon as I find out who the fuck has strolled into my town wreaking fucking havoc.

“Fine, Black. You’re a fly in my fucking ointment.”

Yeah, yeah. I know. “His name?”

“Like I said, he’s not talking. We’ve run face checks, fingerprints, DNA. Nothing. The man’s a ghost.”