The Brit
“What’s this for?” I ask, turning it over in my grip and staring down at it.
“We have to get from here to the car. Don’t hesitate.” Stepping up to the door, he looks out of the peek hole as my dying panic rises again. “How many left?”
“Four that I know of,” Brad answers, reloading his gun. “Two at the gate, two between here and there. Ready?”
“Ready.” Danny pulls the door open and immediately fires, taking out a man who simply turns to look our way. The gunshot alerts another man, who’s quick to reach for his belt, but barely lays his hand on the handle of his gun before Brad takes him down. I’m pulled along, two more shots sounding as I’m pushed into the back of the car, Danny following me in. Brad and Ringo jump in the front, and as we pull off, rather calmly given the circumstances, Danny lets the window down halfway, resting the barrel of his handgun on top of the glass. He fires, and I jump, covering my ears as Brad picks up speed.
“One more,” Ringo says over his shoulder, pointing to the gates up ahead. I see a man in the distance running toward us, firing round after round, the bullets hitting the windshield. “Fuck,” Ringo curses, ducking down. “Take him out, Danny!”
Bang.
The man catapults back, landing with a thud in the road up ahead. Right in the path of our car. I close my eyes and wince as the car jolts and jumps, running straight over him. “The gates?” Brad asks.
“Meh,” Danny says, blasé, making Brad put his foot down. I plaster my back to the seat and brace myself for impact, yelping when I’m tossed around in my seat. Brad momentarily loses control of the car, and the back end sways back and forth a few times before he gets it under control. He curses his head off, and I close my eyes, breathing, focusing on only that.
When I brave opening them again, we’re on the freeway. “Come here.” Danny seizes me and pulls me onto his lap, settling me. “How was your date?” he asks, a certain amount of humor loaded in his question.
What the fuck? I blink into his chest. I think I’m in shock. “I had murder for appetizers,” I quip mindlessly, absorbing the heat of his body.
“I wanted you to kill him.”
“He knew where my son is,” I say quietly, making Danny cuddle me closer.
“He wouldn’t have told you. He would have killed you.”
“Nox is still out there,” I point out, feeling my steadying heart rate accelerate again.
Danny’s face nudges me from his neck, encouraging my gaze up until we’re eye to eye. “So am I,” he whispers.
Chapter 25
DANNY
* * *
Deep down, I knew. I knew when Rose mentioned the serpent ring she wasn’t talking about my father. But I needed to know beyond doubt, even if everything was clicking into perfect place. And for my own peace of mind. Ernie wasn’t mad that he didn’t get to pay his last respects to Pops. He was mad that I foiled his plan to have me shot down at the funeral. He played a part in planting the bomb on my jet ski. He helped send a missile sailing into my fucking house. All to get rid of me? Get the Russians out, get me out, take control of Miami. Fuck, they would have been shipping in women from Europe on mass and selling them to the highest bidder. They had it all figured out. Pops would turn in his fucking grave.
I didn’t take pleasure in leading Rose to Ernie. I didn’t take pleasure in seeing the terror in her eyes when she came face to face with him. But I took the greatest of pleasure in slaying him. The best. That bastard played us all. Rose’s reaction to him was the nail in the coffin. Ernie’s coffin.
I look down at the mobile phone Rose gave me, slowly tapping out a text message to “Mom” as I pull a drag of my cigarette.
Game over.
* * *
I hit send, stub out my cigarette, and stand, making my way upstairs. I enter the steam-filled bathroom, the silhouette of her naked body holding my attention as I strip out of my blood-stained clothes. Her hands pause mid-soap of her stomach, and she looks up through a veil of wet lashes, tilting her head subtly. I wait on the threshold of the shower until she steps forward and offers her hand. Reaching for her, my eyes set on her fingers, I watch as mine lace through hers, playing for a moment. Then she takes the soap and starts to wash away the blood, slowly, meticulously, as if she’s cherishing the time she’s spending cleaning me. Cleaning me of dirt. Of death. Of our pasts. Her hands on me . . .