Wild Card (Vegas Underground 8)

I barely hear them above the cotton stuffed in my ears. It doesn’t matter what they say, anyway. I’m not listening. I don’t have to.

The male agent leans forward. “We are fully prepared to bring all charges back against you for the Luxor crime. You’re looking at twenty years in a Federal penitentiary. Are you prepared to rot in jail for the man who killed your own father?”

I don’t answer.

“But if you’re under duress, we can help. Has Paolo Tacone threatened you, your brother, or your livelihood in any way?”

The memory of him showing me the photo of my brother on his phone, warning me of what he’s capable of, momentarily brings me back to my body with a flood of dread.

Even totally checked out, I know these two are all over the place. They don’t know whether to play good cop or bad cop. They don’t know what angle to chip away at.

I may be reeling, but I’m not stupid.

I’m not going to answer any of their questions.

Except maybe one. I lift my chin. “I’m only with Paolo Tacone because he fucks like a porn star. No other reason.”

Bad Teeth’s jaw drops. Then he frowns and gets up in my face. “You are in bed with the wrong man, Ms. West. And you’re going to pay for it, dearly. I will bring charges against you that will send you to jail until you’re too old to think about sex anymore. Or you can cooperate and help us put a dangerous killer behind bars. You decide.”

The room spins. I look at the garbage can, trying to figure out if I’m going to need it again soon.

I stumble to my feet. From far away I hear myself say, “I’m leaving. You can’t hold me here without charges or a call to my lawyer.”

“We’ll give you forty-eight hours to think this over,” Bad Teeth says. “If we don’t hear from you by then, we’ll bring charges against you. Your choice.”

My feet somehow move toward the door and they let me out, escorting me to the front door, both of them looking disgusted and having conversations with their eyes behind my back.

“Here’s my card,” Agent Docker says to me when we reach the front door. “Make the right decision.”

I don’t take the card. I don’t even bother answering. I just push past them into the parking lot.

But once I’m there, I don’t know where to go.

I don’t even know how to function.

Paolo

Caitlin’s not in her apartment when I get there, which isn’t unusual. It isn’t quite 9:00 p.m. yet. Still, I have a strange prickling sense that something’s off.

I didn’t tell her I’d be here. I probably should have.

All it takes is a little communication, I hear my brother’s words ringing in my ears.

I don’t know why communication feels like a weakness. Like I’m admitting to something or giving up the upper hand.

Maybe she had plans with her friends tonight. Except that doesn’t feel right. I stalked Caitlin enough to know she doesn’t really have friends. She’s friendly, she smiles and chit-chats with the people in her dance class or at school, but there’s no one she’s tight with except her younger brother.

I pull out my phone and dial her number.

It goes straight to voicemail.

Fuck.

I send a text instead, keeping it short. Call me.

I lie down on the bed to wait for her.

Caitlin

If it’s business, I’m gonna deal with you in a business-like fashion. You talk to the Feds, we’re done and the gloves come off.

What if I get picked up by the feds but I don’t talk to them?

Would he believe me? Or will he assume I’m wearing a wire?

What if I’m carrying the baby I don’t want him to know about and the FBI wants me to rat on him or I’ll go to jail for the next twenty years? What if I never get to see my own baby because I’m in jail and Paolo doesn’t want it, either? Who’s going to raise it?

I stand in the parking lot, immune to the bitter December wind blowing through the city. I’m out of my body, looking on like an observer.

There’s Caitlin. She’s in quite a pickle. Good thing I don’t have to deal with that shit.

I don’t know how long I stand there before I come to a hazy decision.

I can’t go back to my apartment. I can’t see Paolo until I figure my shit out. What to do about the pregnancy. What to do about the Feds.

Instead, I go to a coffee shop to hack into their credit card transactions. If the FBI are already building a case against me, what’s one more transgression, right? I use the credit card to order a Lyft to take me on the two hour drive to Starved Rock.

Trevor will know where to find me if I decide not to come back. And once he does, we can both disappear. A hacker wields a power few truly understand—the ability to vanish and reinvent. I don’t need the FBI to keep me safe. I can take care of myself. I always have.