Chapter Four
In which Iris sets out to prove out she can handle Play Crime just fine without Rose.
Iris…
"Are you in or are you out?"
He's impatient. I can hear loud music, people shouting and laughing. A party. I haven't been in a partying mood recently. The sound is off-putting.
Rose isn't here. She's at a frat party with Jeremy, of course. Can I do this alone?
The thought hits me like a sledgehammer. I've never done anything alone. Rose and I do everything together. As identical twins, we've always said we were two halves of one whole.
But now, she's out with Jeremy and this is a classic opportunity. Who am I to let this go by? "I'm in," I say firmly. There's a moment of silence and the music's even louder.
"Isn't Rose doing it with you?"
"She's out right now, and I'm ready. Send me the information."
A map pops up on my phone.
Vitali thinks I've turned in for the night. It's an easy jump from my balcony to the next apartment. I bribe my neighbor Kathy with insanely high-end cosmetics and she pretends she doesn't see me taking her fire escape down to the parking garage for our building.
There was a brief period where Violet thought she had crushed our illicit spirits, but of course we started up right away as soon as her attention turned back to getting married to Roman.
We're just better at keeping it quiet.
Tonight, Jackson's sending me out to a desolate part of Long Island.
It takes me a minute to realize my hands are shaking on the steering wheel.
This isn't a normal exchange. It's all wrong.
We have nice, clean handoffs, usually from other Columbia University students.
Maybe at a pub or a storage unit. Not like this.
I never would have agreed to the pickup if I knew Jackson was sending me to the ass-end of Long Island.
The houses on this street are mostly all dark. This is a working-class neighborhood. Some of the yards are well kept, some of them are covered in weeds and look desolate. Late model cars rest tiredly by the curb and the last house on the block is my pick-up spot.
Turning into the driveway, I stop for a moment, foot on the brake and eyeing the crappy house.
I could just back out of this cracked concrete drive.
I don't need the money. With a sigh, I press the gas pedal again and curve around to the back, the way Jackson directed me.
I cut the lights, listening to the pings of the engine as I wait for someone to come out.
The asshole takes his time, of course, finally slouching out the kitchen door scratching his belly.
Which is in no way enhancing his attempt to look like an Apex predator.
Getting out of my car, I fold my arms, attempting to look menacing, which is a wasted effort.
I'm maybe 5"5 when I stand straight, and curvy, which leads to flattering comments like, "Hey, bodacious tits!
" My secret weapon, though, are my amber-colored eyes.
When I open them wide, I can make mean people melt like butter in the microwave.
"I'm Jackson's contact," I say. "Do you have the stuff for me?
" His eyes are small and set close together, his nose has been broken maybe five or forty times.
A failed boxer who was told that he was MMA material, I'm guessing.
He's got a greasy film of sweat on his forehead, which makes me think he's been sampling something extra tonight.
Maybe a whole cocktail of extras, and they're all fighting to see which one can make its way to the top.
His dilated eyes tell me he's not sure which particular drug is going to win out, either.
"Yeah, it's over here." He strolls over to his shitty looking camper truck and opens up the back.
After he pulls out one of the boxes, I click on my phone's flashlight, looking it over. "Open it up."
With the sigh of one who has clearly been pushed to the limit of his endurance, he pulls out a switchblade, drawing it down the packing tape and opening the box.
A row of gleaming gold watches sit in their green velvet boxes, with cushioned linings that look more lush than my couch.
They're just waiting for me to take them home and pet them like kittens.
I look for the Rolex shipping stamp. Yep, these are legit. Excellent.
A flush of unreasonable self-esteem surges through me. I can do this without Rose. I can handle shit on my own.
"Looks good." I turn off my flashlight. "Help me put the boxes in my trunk please."
"Well, there’s something we have to handle first.”
Turning, the box already nestled in my arms like a baby, I give him a stern glare that should freeze his feet to the ground. "And what problem would that be?" I say acidly. This punch-drunk fuck is not about to start bargaining with me, is he?
"Well, I need payment." He scratches his stubbled cheek. Oh delightful, this idiot thinks I'm going to bargain.
"I know you've already been paid." My tone is flat and less than impressed.
"I saw the transaction details. You have your money.
I'm just here to pick up the goods. Trust me, you do not want to piss off Jackson.
" The certainty in my voice makes him quail for a moment.
Then he looks around, seemingly remembering that it's 2 AM in a shit part of Long Island and there's no one around.
"I'm telling you.” He steps closer, "I need the full amount. What he gave me was just a down payment." I laugh, not bothering to lower my voice, and push a button on my cellphone. Time to abort this mission. It transmits a distress signal back to Roman and to my bodyguard, Vitali.
The one I ditched tonight.
So, no matter how this plays out, it's going to suck.
"We're not playing this game. I will just drive off and you can deal with Jackson when he finds out you fucked up his transfer.
" I don't bother to lower my voice, since I might be about to die.
Having the neighbors wake up and hear me might be helpful in case he decides to draw that switchblade and start carving off pieces of me before my security gets here.
He puts his hands behind his head and paces in a circle. His shirt rides up to show a series of terrible red tattoos. They bring it back. That night. That monster of a man, sprayed with blood like he’d showered in it.
I shake my head. Don’t think about it. It’ll go away. Eventually.
His gaze switches to my shiny, expensive SUV and back to me. "You can afford it. Don't you have one of those black cards?"
"Can you take an American Express Centurion?" I ask. "Show me your card reader." His bushy brows are starting to draw together and I click my fob, raising the tailgate on the Range Rover up again. "Fine."
Rule One: if the deal is going sideways, drop the goods and run.
I drop the box, watching it land on the ground. One side of the box splits and two of the watches come rolling out, their pristine cases getting scratched from the crumbling cement.
"What the fuck!" he shouts. "Don't fuck with the packaging!"
Rule Two: If you can't run, assert dominance. "Then don't fuck with me," I say sharply, wondering who is this stone-cold bitch? Because I should be crying and wetting myself right now.
Apparently, I'm not that much of a badass because he slams his forearm across my throat before I can duck.
My back hits the door of the Range Rover as all the air whooshes out of my chest. Red-hot pain explodes in my neck, it feels like he crushed my trachea.
I'm wheezing, trying to get my breath back.
"The payment just doubled," he rasps. "Now, I'm gonna put you in this fucking car.
I'm gonna sit next to you and I'm holding this, to keep you in line.
" He pulls out a Beretta, not aiming it at me, exactly, just kind of waving it around and that might be scarier.
I've learned enough about guns in the last two years to know all that flailing means the gun could go off at any second.
"You don't think it is at all suspicious," I say, still coughing, and my eyes watering, "that I'm a nice girl driving an expensive car and this greasy prick sitting next to me really is going to be like, what? My date? My bestie? You don't think this is going to draw some suspicion?"
This dude is no Einstein. He's getting confused, he doesn't like that the drugs aren't letting him format any kind of logical conclusion to this so he decides on anger instead, slamming his fist into the window next to my head, a small corner of the glass cracks into a spiderweb of broken glass, but it holds.
Of course it holds, Roman had our cars bulletproofed. He really is the best brother-in-law in the world. I should thank him for that. If I live through this.
"You think this is the time for you to start telling me what to do, bitch?"
I try to stifle my coughs, watching his pupils expand and then shrink again as the Battle Royale for the final two drugs is taking over.
"You're gonna do what I tell you or I'm carving my initials in your forehead and I'm selling you to one of the fuck houses down by the docks and no one's ever gonna see you again."
That won't happen. Roman will get here first, or Vitali. They will hammer this bastard into the ground. But I don’t feel like a stone-cold bitch anymore.
Tears are streaming down my face and I’m pretending they’re from the burning misery of my throat and not because I’m scared shitless.
He's high enough that maybe I could drive my knee up between his legs and then smash his head against the shattered window…
Iris, you idiot. He's got a gun.
Money, maybe? I could try to hold him off with lies of big money until Roman's men rescue me.
As it turns out, none of those options are available because a spotlight clicks on, illuminating the grimy backyard like its high noon. Me, standing next to a box of stolen merchandise, and this drug-addled psycho holding a gun to my head.
"Don't move! You're under arrest!"
Oh, come on!
Four police officers come storming up the driveway, one of them shoving me face-first against the broken window, which cuts into my cheekbone.
I can feel the broken glass scrape over my skin and it hurts worse than my battered trachea.
Blood drips down my face as they rip my phone out of my hand and handcuff me.
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney." I wince as they tighten the cuffs. Well, that seems mean. It's not like I'm going anywhere, bleeding and coughing.
"If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.
" My Miranda is read by an older cop, who’s looking distinctly unimpressed with tonight's magnificent bust. They're in one hell of a hurry though, hauling us both down the driveway and shoving us in separate police cars.
A few blocks later, my heart sinks as I watch Roman's Bugatti racing toward the house, passing us.
I wish he'd been five minutes earlier.
Why were those cops hovering like ghouls to arrest us? No one called them because we were making noise. That was too fast.
I hate that not only can I not do anything without Rose, but now, Roman's going to have to clean up my mess.