27. Tank
Tank
Idon't smoke and I never have.
The cigarette in my fingers isn't even lit.
But standing outside a hospital at half past midnight in a black hoodie with my mask pulled high, I needed something for my hands to do that wasn't making fists, and the pack I lifted off a kid in the ER parking lot four hours ago has come in handier than I expected.
It's a prop. A reason to be here, leaning against the brick of the patient drop-off overhang, head tipped down, eyes tracking everything from under the brim of my cap.
Nobody looks twice at a guy with a cigarette.
Even one with the lower half of his face hidden beneath a mask, and the rest covered in scars.
Ellie is upstairs. Fourth floor, ICU. Kade texted me the room number an hour ago, and I've been watching the lights in the window ever since.
Marney is in there. Ellie is in there. Kade is with her, and that should be enough to settle my nerves, but nothing about tonight is fucking settling anything.
Especially not the man pacing the loading lane fifty feet to my left.
Todd Waterson came outside ten minutes ago.
He didn't see me. People don't, mostly, as long as I'm tucked into the right shadow with my shoulders rolled forward to make myself look less imposing and my chin down so my face isn't as visible.
His tuxedo jacket is unbuttoned now, and his bowtie is hanging loose around his collar like he yanked at it on the way through the lobby. He's got a phone pressed to his ear as he paces the same fifteen feet of pavement, back and forth.
I know what grief looks like and this isn't it.
Todd is pissed.
His wife is upstairs in a coma, and his stepdaughter is upstairs falling apart. But he's down here, outside, bitching angrily at someone on the other end of that damn phone.
I take one slow step further down the wall, into a darker patch away from the security lamp. I pretend to flick some ash onto the pavement and tip my head toward him.
His voice carries. He's not even trying to keep it down, which tells me he thinks the loading lane is empty. The valets are clustered around the corner, so there's just me and him, and as far as Todd Waterson is concerned, I'm part of the wall.
"I am busy," he's seething. "Did you not just hear me? My wife just fucking collapsed in front of every reporter in this town and you seriously expect me to do this now?"
He pauses and pinches the bridge of his nose at whatever the other person is saying, then resumes his pacing.
"Then deal with the press. That's literally what I pay you for.
You go out there, you say the senator and his family appreciate the outpouring of support, you say Mrs. Waterson is in stable condition.
You do not, under any circumstances, say a single word about substances, do you understand me?
Not one. If I see the word overdose on a chyron tonight I will personally end the career of whoever leaked it. "
He hangs up and dials another number. The person answers immediately.
"Friday is off," Todd says, his tone shifting dramatically.
"Do you understand me? You tell him Friday is off.
" There's a long pause and then his voice gets more incredulous.
"Have you seen the fucking news tonight?
Have you? There are three different stations parked outside this hospital.
My face is on every late edition between here and D.C.
and you want me to sign off on a shipment moving through the docks on Friday? "
He barks out an unhinged echoing laugh at whatever their response is.
"I don't give a shit if he's anxious. I don't care. Tell him to pop a fucking pill and wait. Tell him whatever you have to, but he is not moving so much as a goddamn pallet through those docks Friday night, not while every camera in the state is pointed at me. You hear me?"
Another pause.
"No. No. If he goes ahead anyway or if he so much as touches a container without my say-so, I will hand him to the feds personally. You tell him those exact words. He moves Friday without my permission, he loses everything. Including me."
The cigarette in my fingers has bent in half, but I don't remember crushing it.
I straighten my hand carefully, letting the cigarette drop to the pavement, and I grind it under my boot like I smoked it down.
I keep my eyes on Todd while I tap out a message on my phone, brightness all the way down, angled away.
TANK
Todd outside. Leaving soon. Talking shit on phone.
KADE
Eyes on him. Don't lose him.
I'm already moving, peeling off the wall. Todd finishes his call and makes a beeline for the valet stand.
So much for being at the hospital with his wife.
Family values my ass.
I drift the other way, toward the parking garage. My bike is on the second level, and from there, I can watch the valet circle without being seen.
As soon as I spot him leaving the hospital lot from my bike, I peel out. The black Mercedes is just starting to roll out from under the loading overhang as I ease down the garage ramp, and I let it get a half block ahead before I slip into traffic behind it.
The streets at this hour are empty enough that I have to hang back further than I'd like. Two cars between us where I can manage. One car when I can't. Todd drives like a typical entitled dickhead, heading straight for the highrise.
Of course.
I tap out another message at a red light.
TANK
He's headed to his office. Not home.
Three dots.
KADE
Stay on him and don't get made. I'm not leaving her.
Kade and I might see eye to eye on almost nothing lately, but at least we can agree on that.