Chapter 43 Sloane
Sloane
Renting a car under my real name is a bad idea, but I’m a trauma resident, not a practiced criminal.
I don’t have the first clue how to bribe someone, and the guy behind the desk at the Hertz car rental doesn’t seem like a rule breaker, anyway.
He photocopies my ID and has me fill out a mountain of paperwork.
I’m surprised he doesn’t make me sign over my firstborn.
When he asks me if I want to upgrade to something flashy, I politely decline, telling him we’ll stick with a sedan, and then we’re back on the road.
Lacey is in high spirits as I drive for the next ten hours.
Conversely, guilt gnaws at my stomach lining, but it can’t be helped.
I cannot in good conscience take Lacey to this compound.
Zeth wanted to keep both me and his sister (even if he doesn’t know that’s who she is) away from the compound, and he’s right.
She shouldn’t be exposed to that kind of environment.
She’s too damaged. Anything could happen to her.
Technically, anything could happen to me, too, but I’m not thinking about that.
I’m going to go in there, I’m going to ream Zeth out for completely fucking up my life in the space of a few short weeks, then I’m going to grab my sister and leave.
In my head, there is no room for deviations from this plan.
As night begins to fall, we pull into Dana Point, at least an hour from our destination to the northeast. Lacey doesn’t bat an eyelash.
I have to follow the GPS directions closely.
I should know my way from the freeway exit to the quaint little oceanfront house, but in my defense, I’ve visited only three or four times.
With my degree, then my internship and residency, I haven’t had much time for visiting.
I pull into the driveway, silencing the engine, still waiting for Lacey to realize that we’re not where we’re supposed to be.
She sits on the back seat, staring out of the window even though we’re now stationary, not even blinking.
I get out of the car, wondering what she’ll do. Without hesitation, she gets out of the car, too, collecting the clothes I bought for her from Walmart. “You all right, Lace?” I ask carefully.
Her eyebrows twitch. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
I can think of a thousand reasons, first and foremost of which being that she may have killed a man with a very large rock yesterday.
I keep my mouth shut, though. Instead, I walk up the path to the little house and knock at the door.
Nervous energy rolls through me like waves.
God knows how this is all going to play out.
If I’m lucky, it’ll go well. If not, I’ll be searching for somewhere else to leave Zeth’s sister.
Lacey stands next to me, a small smile on her face.
The front door opens, and a tall, thin man appears on the other side of it.
His eyes widen with surprise, but then quickly soften.
He looks older than the last time I saw him. Tired.
“Sloane!” He beams as if discovering me on his doorstep in all my disheveled glory is the best thing that’s happened to him in years.
I take a deep breath and return his smile. “Hey, Dad.”
ZETH
My burner’s going nuts in my pocket. There are only five people who have that number, so I know it’s fucking important. But can I answer it? No, I fucking can’t. I’m stuck in a compound full of suspicious Black Talon members, and they all look like they want to beat the living shit out of me.
I’m an arrogant son of a bitch, yes, but there’s a reason for my ego.
I’ve fucking earned it. I’m not just violent.
I’m trained. When a situation calls for it, I can hurt a bunch of people in a short space of time.
I’m not in a position to hurt anyone here, though.
There are three excellent reasons for that, and they are as follows:
Number one: There are too many of them.
Number two: They’re toting semi-automatics.
And number three: I’m fucking wasted.
When Jacob said he wanted to have a few beers in the sunshine, what he really meant to say was that he wanted to drink a case of beer in the sunshine, alongside three bottles of Cuban rum, and then carry on drinking until the sun went down and neither of us could stand up straight.
My only reprieve is the fact that Jacob is as shitfaced as I am, and the sweating bastard didn’t end up calling the girls out.
No way he could get his dick hard with this much Havana running through his veins.
I probably could if I tried, but fuck that.
All I can think about is Sloane, and how much I want to kill motherfucking Callum for not watching the house like I told him to.
Occasionally, Michael’s precarious situation emerges through the drunken fog of my mind, but I know the guy.
He can take a beating when he needs to, Sometimes, he even enjoys one, but that’s a different story.
By the time I figure out where they’re keeping him in the morning, he may have a few broken ribs and a couple of black eyes, but Jacob won’t allow his men to do too much damage.
Not right away. They’ll wanna get information out of him first, and it’ll take a while for them to realize the stubborn bastard won’t give it.
Suffice it to say I’ll owe him a serious pay raise after this.
“You and me, we—we are fucking dogs, right?” Jacob hiccups. It takes a lot of effort to swivel my eyes toward the great lump of a man, half-reclined, half-slumped on his lounger.
“Speak for yourself, man,” I growl.
This makes him laugh. “You fucking are. I am, too! There’s…
there’s nothing wrong with knowing what you are.
You were born shit. So was I. But just because…
” He pauses, pressing his balled-up fist into his sternum.
He waits a minute, eyes watering, and then continues.
“Just because we were born shit doesn’t mean we stayed shit.
We’re piranhas swimming around with all the other fish, looking like every other fucker.
And then BAM!” he shouts. “We got the nastiest bite around. We’re fucking dog king fish! ”
I grimace at that. “I’m not a piranha. I’m a Great White.”
“Whatever, man. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You seen those bastards strip—” Another bout of heartburn. “You seen those bastards strip flesh from the bone? It’s… fucking fascinating. They’re a nightmare.”
I sling back another shot of Havana, wincing. “Piranhas live in shoals. They’re group… fish. Great Whites are the badasses of the sea. Don’t catch them hanging around in groups. They’re like… lone wolves.”
Jacob throws his head back and howls, mimicking the call of a wolf.
“Well, I don’t know what animals we are anymore, asshole.
All I know is that you and I are one and the same.
We clawed our way out of the dirt we were born into and carved ourselves out a kingdom.
My kingdom’s slightly bigger than yours, though, huh? ”
I nod ruefully, tipping my glass to him. “Uh-huh. And you don’t answer to anyone, too, right?”
Jacob shakily pours some more alcohol into both our empty shot glasses, grinning at me. He suppresses his smile as he says, “From what I hear, you ain’t taking orders, either.” He offers me the alcohol, his eyes more lucid than they were a minute ago.
Well, fuck me. His comment has an instant sobering effect.
He does know about me running out on Charlie?
I clear my throat. There’s a lot riding on what comes out of my mouth next.
“Charlie’s a major pain in the ass sometimes, Jake.
We’re on a break. I’m sure he’ll have forgotten”—I wave my arm drunkenly in the general direction of Seattle—“all about it by next week.” Better to make it sound like he’s mad at me than the other way around.
Jacob might harbor some sympathy for a payroll guy who’s pissed off a boss like Charlie.
A payroll guy who’s gone rogue and decided to take certain matters into his own hands will look like a red flag.
All of these thoughts form through a thick haze of alcohol.
“I see.” Jacob tosses back his drink and reaches across the table between us, placing a firm hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard.
“I defended you today, Zeth. I chose to give you the benefit of the doubt where my men would have had me kill you instead. I’ve done this because we’re fucking dogs, you and me, and when I look at you I see… me.”
Yeah, you wish, asshole. Through the booze, this strikes me as funny, given that I’m twelve inches taller, ten years younger, and a hundred pounds lighter than the sack of man-Jell-O sprawled in front of me.
I suppose it’s time to thank him now? I breathe deep, willing the fresh air to help me find the right words to convey some self-effacing gratitude. Sadly all I come up with is “Thanks.”
He offers a one-shouldered shrug. “Don’t prove me wro—”
Gunfire.
The compound comes alive.
CRACK! Crack, crack, crack!
Jacob heaves himself to his feet. “God fucking damn it!” he roars, throwing his glass on the ground.
I leap up, adrenaline punching through the alcohol.
Oh… shit. I’m on a goddamn merry-go-round.
I follow Jacob as he lumbers toward the villa’s entrance.
Outside, all of Jacob’s guards are bristling, directing their weapons through the fence toward the burning headlights of a vehicle on the other side.
“Back in the fucking car, bitch!”
“Shoot!” a Black Talon yells. “Fucking shoot!”
Jacob takes in the scene through bloodshot eyes. “What the hell is going on?” His yell does little to calm the gunmen, although one of them does answer.
“Some bitch rolled up out of the desert. She’s a fucking cop!”