Kyla
“Sorry,” she said. “Today has been… difficult on my stomach.”
“Can’t blame you.”
“No.”
Stan Holiday was inside, red and angry and ready to crack heads.
And he had a massive Desert Eagle magnum riding on his hip.
Stan looked worse than he had a few hours ago, when Kyla had watched through her curtains as the man led Penelope into room 7. Sometime between six o’clock and now, Stanley had gotten into some kind of fight. His lip was busted and barely scabbed over, his jaw swollen and starting to bruise.
Who the hell had worked him over like that?
Kyla sat very still, as if maybe, just maybe, Frank’s right-hand man wouldn’t notice her if she made herself as inconspicuous as possible.
It didn’t work, of course. Stanley looked right at her—right at Kyla and Fernanda both—and then just kept on walking like they were the least of his concerns.
Hardly seemed to register them. Hardly seemed to care.
He made his way to Penelope’s booth, thumped the table, and said, “Get up. You’re coming back to the room. ”
“Back?” the girl said.
“To the room. Now.”
“Why?”
“To keep you safe.”
“Safe from what?”
Stanley hesitated, just a moment. “That bastard’s here. He cut our tires.”
That got everyone in the cafe sitting up a little straighter.
“Who did?” Penelope said.
“Ryan. Ryan Fucking Phan.”
Tabitha appeared at that moment, wheeling in a metal trolley loaded down with serving dishes. The woman looked exhausted: her cheeks red, her hair damp, flecks of grease spattered on her sleeves. She started loading up the buffet, breathing hard from the strain.
Thomas, her brother, did nothing to help her. “Don’t forget, Miss Powers asked that you bring her a plate. She will be eating dinner in her room tonight.”
Tabitha gave him a tired nod. She started to fill a plate with food.
Kyla shot a look at Fernanda. Shit. So much for trying to speak with Sarah casually in public before the woman’s phone call with Frank O’Shea.
“How could Ryan be here?” Penelope said. “You stole his passport back in Mexico. You nearly killed him.”
“I saw him. I saw him sneaking around the side of the motel.”
“And did you go look for him?” Penelope said.
Stanley’s red face grew redder. “Of course I went to look for him. He’s gone to ground somewhere. It’s the only thing he’s good at. But he’s trying to steal you again. I don’t know how much the cartel is paying him but I’m not going to let it happen.”
Penelope appeared thoroughly unbothered by her grandfather’s bluster. She rolled her eyes, God help her. “We were in Mexico for days. If Ryan was trying to sell me to the cartel, don’t you think it would have happened by the time you got down there?”
At the end of the buffet line, Tabitha finished loading a plate with food.
She grabbed a knife and fork and napkin and headed for the doors.
She clearly had no interest in dealing with whatever was about to happen, and Kyla thought that sounded like a great idea.
She shot a glance at Fernanda. She mouthed, Let’s go.
But Fernanda, strangely enough, seemed riveted to this conversation between Stanley and Penelope. Her hand was in her lap. Looking down, Kyla saw she had her gun out and ready.
Oh Jesus.
Stanley was clearly near the end of his rope. He was so angry he was spitting, and his busted lip sent a fine mist of blood across Penelope’s booth. “Frank can deal with Ryan when he gets here. You’re coming with me. Now.”
When he what? Kyla thought.
Penelope said, “Adeline wants to know who busted your lip.”
That was the last straw. With a furious grunt from deep in his chest, Stanley wrapped a massive hand around Penelope’s arm and wrenched her from the booth. Her knees struck the table on the way up with a loud crack. The girl yelped in surprise. In pain.
“You’re hurting me,” she said, sounding genuinely afraid at last. “You’re hurting me.”
From the booth behind Kyla and Fernanda, Ethan was up on his feet. “Let go of her.”
Stanley froze. He turned his red face very, very slowly toward Ethan’s booth. He studied the boy with a look of such profound fury, Kyla felt her own heart quail.
“What did you say to me?”
Ethan, to his credit, didn’t back down. “I said you can’t touch a child like that. Are you crazy?”
“Am I crazy?” A lethal smile spread over Stanley’s bleeding mouth. “A fucking fruit like you, telling me how I can operate in my own territory?”
Hunter was still seated next to Ethan. It didn’t look like he’d moved a muscle this whole time. He hardly moved now. He only tilted his head to say, “You’re going to stop talking like that. Now.”
Stanley’s smile didn’t waver. “And why is that?”
“Because I don’t want your granddaughter to see what would happen next.”
Kyla swallowed. In any other man, she would have taken this as bravado, but not in Hunter.
It was right there in his voice: the man sounded like he knew how to do terrible things.
Men like this could make a fortune in Frank’s outfit.
Tough, quiet bastards fueled by violence.
Danger in the blood. She’d served a few of them at the steakhouse over the last year, seen the way even Frank’s toughest sons of bitches gave them a wide berth.
Specialists, Lance used to call them.
Specialists in what? Kyla asked.
If you have to ask, you’re already dead.
Even Stanley, idiot as he was, seemed to register that this was no mere tough guy. The fury in his face flickered, just a moment, but he didn’t let go of Penelope. He said, “Have I seen you around somewhere?”
Before this could sink in, a faint noise came from outside: a thin, high whine, sharp and abrupt, like the sound of a hinge straining past its breaking point.
Except that wasn’t right. The sound was human. Subtle as it was, the sound made everyone in the cafe freeze. Stanley let go of Penelope’s arm. Ethan crouched down a little, like he might need to take off at a run. Hunter sat up in his booth.
Fernanda tightened her grip on the gun in her lap. Kyla strained her ears.
The sound came again, louder, and this time there was no mistaking it.
Tabitha was out there, screaming and screaming and screaming in the night.