Chapter 5
Edmund
Scollins isn’t at his place, and Caleb hasn’t arrived by the time Troy and I get there, get out, and walk around.
“This is fucked,” Troy says. “He isn’t here.”
I start walking back to the truck. Emotionless. Like I don’t give one single fuck. “He gambles. We should try Sterling.”
Ten minutes later, we’re pulling up to the bar my dad runs.
It’s his one pet project—not for the bar itself, but for the underground gambling den beneath it.
He has it set up as a “gentleman’s club.
” It’s too fancy for the likes of Darryl Scollins.
Except in the off-hours, like now, it’s open to a less elite clientele.
The sun glints off Sterling’s sign, momentarily blinding as I get out of the truck. Troy and I clock Caleb’s silver Challenger parked on the opposite side of the street. Interesting he’d come to Sterling instead of Scollins’s house.
“I didn’t say we were coming here,” Troy says. “Did you?”
“Nope.”
We go into Sterling. The bar itself is boring and upscale. Zero personality. A polished wood floor, matching tables, a mirror behind the bar reflecting countless bottles of liquor. At this hour, nobody’s around except the bartender getting ready for an early afternoon shift.
“Mr. Layton, sir, good to see you.”
“Thanks. Is Scollins downstairs?”
“Yes.” He chuckles. “Mr. Morraine just asked me the same thing.”
“Morraine’s here, too?” Troy asks.
The bartender nods, his smile disappearing as he realizes how serious we are. “Yes. He went downstairs, maybe a minute ago. He told everyone else to clear out. I told him I can’t leave my post, not without Mr. Layton’s say-so. Would you like me to leave, sir?”
“No.” My heart freezes in my chest. Something is very wrong with this. I don’t know what, yet, but I know it isn’t good. No feelings, though. I can’t allow a single one through. There’s too much at stake. “Morraine went downstairs?”
Troy nudges me forward. His urgency is contagious, and I put on speed. We barrel past the bar and through a door labeled Office, then take a long set of concrete stairs down toward what my father calls the “hall.”
Halfway down the stairs, I hear two people shouting at each other. I can’t make out the words. Troy and I double our speed. I half-trip, half-run, moving as fast as I can.
“What the hell are you doing?” someone shouts.
A man—sounds like Caleb—yells, “You’re a fucking traitor!”
A gun goes off. The shot echoes in the stairway, deafening.
What the fuck is happening down there? I can’t seem to move fast enough.
“You—you shot—” the words end in a groan.
Fuck, someone got shot? That’ll piss off my father. But his feelings are unimportant. I’m focusing on the wrong issues, trying to make sense of everything happening so fast.
I leap the last few steps and land facing the large hall.
Round tables are spaced throughout, but nobody’s sitting at them.
The space is lit by dangling lamps finished in stainless steel.
They match the edges of the wood-inlaid tables.
Cards, chips, cash litter the floor. Looks like Caleb cleared the room without any order or warning. This is even more of a mess.
Caleb stands upright, holding a gun, his broad shoulders heaving. His normally easy smile is nowhere to be seen—instead, his lips are twisted in a snarl as he gazes at the body lying before him.
Darryl Scollins.
Blood is pooling from a gunshot wound to Scollins’s chest. His face is pale, stark against his dark gray beard. The giant crown and rose tattoo on the back of his hand matches the one hidden on my bicep. A gun is held loosely in Scollins’s hand.
Family. Our organization has tried to be about family.
And he betrayed us.
“Fucking traitor.” Caleb kicks Scollins’s leg.
Troy rushes to Scollins’s side. Puts his hand over the wound, trying to staunch the blood flow. “Come on, Scollins. Stay with us.”
At first I wonder—why do we care if he lives or dies?
Then I realize: Danica. Scollins might know where she is.
I turn on Caleb. “What the fuck? Why’d you fucking shoot him?”
“He’s a traitor, man—I figured out what he did!” Caleb lifts the gun like he’s going to shoot Scollins again. “He deserves this and more.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” I keep my voice low. “I need his information.”
Troy shakes his head. He looks up at me, his dark eyes holding a mix of emotions I’m too numb to decipher. “Too late. He’s gone.”
It takes a long moment for the words to penetrate my skull. Gone. He’s gone. And gone with him is whatever knowledge he held about Danica’s kidnappers and her location.
In that moment, I know only one thing.
Rage. White-hot, all-consuming.
* * *
Troy
Something changes in Edmund. One moment, he’s calm and controlled, bottling everything up.
The next moment, he grabs one of the tables and overturns it. He lets out a bellow and kicks a chair.
Caleb jumps, startled by the outburst. He’s never seen Edmund like this.
Honestly, neither have I. But I think it’s a long fucking time in coming.
Edmund’s been bottling everything up. He hasn’t allowed himself any outlets.
Now maybe isn’t the best time for him to lose control—we need to find Dani. But at least he’s showing some emotion.
“What—the—fuck!” he shouts, overturning another table. “You fucking traitor, fucking—where is she? Fuck you, fuck all of you. Where’s Danica?”
Caleb watches Edmund. “Should we—”
“Let him rage.”
Another table goes down. Edmund picks up a chair and flings it as far as he can. It clatters against the wall with a loud bang. Several framed pieces of art fall to the floor, glass frames shattering.
Caleb rubs the back of his neck—embarrassed or unsure, I can’t tell. He doesn’t like the sight of his boss losing his cool in front of him, I guess. “Look, man. Maybe I should go—”
“Stay. We’ll need to figure out next steps.”
Picking up another chair, Edmund roars and hurls it against the wall after the last one. He’s losing his mind.
So am I. And better he lose it here, than somewhere else. Here, the damage is contained. Witnesses at a minimum.
He looks around wildly, probably looking for the nearest chair or table.
I drop to my knees next to Scollins.
Distracted by my movements, Edmund stops raging. He watches me, panting but otherwise still.
“What are you doing?” Caleb asks.
“Getting his phone.”
“Oh. Right.” Caleb drops to the other side of the body and goes for his pockets to help.
Blood is everywhere.
I find the phone. Caleb stares at it, a perplexed expression on his face.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. It’s probably locked, anyway. Here, I think I’ve seen him open it before.” He holds his hand out for the phone.
I don’t give it to him. “Edmund, can I talk to you a second?”
Edmund nods.
I make my way over to him, stepping over an upside-down table and the remains of a chair. In a low voice, I say, “Something isn’t adding up.”
He nods. I don’t think he’s fully taking in my meaning.
“Morraine’s acting suspicious—”
All of a sudden, Edmund snaps out of it. His gaze moves to the side and he shakes his head. “Troy.”
He doesn’t even have to say the rest. I see Caleb moving toward the stairs.
“You.” I point at Caleb. “Don’t fucking move.”
“Guys, look. I’ll get to work on what happened to Danica.” He keeps inching toward the stairs.
A few big strides and I’m blocking Caleb’s way.
He squares his shoulders. He’s half a head shorter than I am, and about fifty pounds lighter. Cute that he thinks he stands a chance against me. He seems to figure that out pretty fast, and his shoulders fall.
“Troy, what the fuck? Let me go, man. We have work to do, right?”
I don’t budge. “Why’d you kill Scollins?”
“He was gonna kill me.” Caleb jabs a finger at Scollins, at the gun held loosely in his right hand.
“Yeah, that’s where this doesn’t add up.” I shake my head. I can’t believe it’s come to this. I can’t believe, after all these years working with him…
Caleb flicks his gaze to the stairs behind me. He wants to be anywhere but here. “What do you mean?”
“I mean Scollins was a leftie. If he was gonna shoot you, he’d do it with his other hand. It would be uncomfortable as fuck for him to hold this gun in this hand.”
“Yeah, so?” Caleb’s focus bounces around—past me, to the side, over his shoulder. He’s looking for an out. “Maybe he was in a hurry—”
“Shut up.” Edmund’s eyes are red-rimmed, his face haggard. “Troy, call Sergey Aseyev. He’ll want to speak with Morraine. Assuming Morraine can still talk once we’re through with him.”