9. Sydney
CHAPTER 9
SYDNEY
What a grumpy, unhelpful man, saying the ‘dumb ones get killed.’ Well, this dumb one is going to make it, because I’ve successfully made it back to my rental car and am pulling out of the hotel parking lot—no homicidal-knife-wielders in sight.
I do my best to stay on the road as I look up the nearest police station on my phone and set the directions to guide me there.
My phone starts ringing. It’s Braxton’s number, and last I checked, you don’t take those with you when you leave this earth. It has to be Braxton’s killer on the other end.
I hit the end button.
I will not negotiate with terrorists. Or people connected to the mafia. And if West is right…I’m in deep trouble.
This adventure is going more sideways by the minute.
When I’d first stumbled across Braxton’s connection to the Riccis, an old-time Italian mafia family, it had seemed like fate—the perfect way to get back at the people who had ended my dad’s career.
I was going to take back the money they made from making a bet on my dad’s last fight. It was a sure win when they had drugged him.
What better way to get even with them than to take some money that belonged to them?
When I first met Bodie King, he had hired me to attend a meeting between him and an Italian family visiting the States. Bodie had been asking them about a collectible chess set that had somehow gotten scattered around.
The meeting itself had gone great. Bodie found what he was looking for, and he asked if I’d be willing to do some more work for him. Though his Italian was good, he didn’t speak it with the same ease I did, and he wanted to make sure there were no miscommunications in the meetings. Because I felt comfortable with him, I agreed to keep working for him on any future translation work he would need.
When he finally got around to picking up the chess pieces, we went to a meeting with the family again, and this time, Braxton was there. Before the meeting, I heard him muttering to the Vicelli family about how the Riccis kept him on a tight leash. Then, he mentioned there was a problem regarding a missing thirty million dollars, and the Vicelli man had said something about history repeating itself.
I still haven’t figured out that part.
After eavesdropping on the conversation, I realized that Braxton was ready to be done working for the Riccis but couldn’t actually access the money.
The Vicillis refused to help him, saying they didn’t want to cross Dario Ricci—even with thirty million as an incentive.
Enter in me . I will gladly cross Dario Ricci. My dad was crushed by the way his last fight went. Three years ago, my dad was one of the best boxers in the world. He also wasn’t a young boxer at his last fight. He’d planned to go out with a bang at age forty-six. It was the biggest, most hyped-up fight of his life.
We’d all come back home for the fight. I’d been twenty-one, and my brothers, Maverick and Brooks, were twenty-three and twenty-four. My oldest brother had flown into Vegas from Greece to watch the fight. I don’t even know what he was doing there, but that’s par for the course with Archer.
All four of us kids were there, along with Mom and every other person who cared about boxing. The second Dad stepped into the ring, we knew something was off.
He was sluggish, and his eyes looked glazed over when the camera zoomed in on him. And it was a knockout.
Dad discovered it was because the Ricci family was using the fight to clean some of their money and made a big bet on him losing. Only, it wasn’t much of a bet when they had fixed the fight.
I sigh as I turn onto the street the police station is on.
Something drops in the pit of my stomach as I realize this is almost over. It feels like I’ve lived four hundred years all in one morning.
I glance in my rearview mirror to double check that no one is following me. West was wrong. I’m not going to get myself killed. Why does it irk me so much that a stranger doesn’t think I’m capable of getting out of this mess?
Sure, I needed somewhere to hide, but it wasn’t like I needed him to hide me. I would have hidden on any old boat I came across.
Just then, I spot him: a man standing next to a truck parked on a side street. He has an arm propped against the bed of the truck as he kicks the tire, but I recognize that profile.
And there, parked at the entrance of the police station, is the same SUV that blocked the exit from the hotel.
They’re already here. He was right.
The SUV in the parking lot inches forward, and my eyes snap to the driver’s window. It rolls down to reveal a man staring directly at me as he slowly drives forward to block the entrance driveway.
My eyes meet his, and I freeze. I’m at a dead stop in the middle of the street, and I don’t know what to do.
Then, the truck on the side street fires up, and I know I have to get out of here.
I step on the gas and shoot past the police station. I can’t explain how I know that I would be dead if I tried to make it inside that building, but I know it with every fiber of my being.
The engine roars, and I slam back against the driver’s seat as the car shoots forward. It’s been a while since I’ve done a little street racing with my brothers, but I’m sure it will come back to me.
Looking both ways, I crank the wheel and turn down a side street. I don’t even bother to look at the name as I step on the gas, trying to put distance between me and some murderers.
The business card that West handed me is sliding back and forth on my dashboard every time I turn a corner.
When I make a sharp right-hand turn, the card slides back toward me, and I snatch it up.
It simply says Fletcher with a phone number written below it.
I don’t know Fletcher, but I do know someone that I trust.
Swerving to dodge a garbage can while I pull my phone from my pocket, I hit Bodie’s name on the screen and stay on the road.
The car behind me is gaining, so I take a hard left onto a side street. Unfortunately, it’s gravel. Do people not believe in paving roads here?
“Sydney? Did you find West this morning?” Bodie greets me in a ridiculously calm voice. Of course, he doesn’t know I’m busy running for my life.
“That’s one way of putting it,” I reply as my car skids around the corner. “Do you trust West?”
“Trust is such a fluid word. Maybe I need more to work with here.”
I glance back at the SUV barreling down the street behind me. “Will he kill me?”
Bodie laughs. “No. He might want to, but he won’t.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking from his own personal experience of wanting to kill me or West’s self-control when it comes to Bodie.
“What’s going on? Are you in trouble?” Bodie actually sounds concerned.
“I’m just wondering if I would be safe with West.”
“Definitely. He’d keep you safe. He’s not good company, I’ll tell you that, but he’ll protect you.”
“He mentioned a police officer that I could trust. Fletcher Farley. Do you know him?”
“Yes, I’d highly recommend him if you have a problem. As long as you’re not committing a crime. He’s pretty by the book, if you know what I mean, and he doesn’t look the other way if you’re committing a little larceny on the side.”
I screech onto Highway 101 with the confidence of an out-of-tune violinist.
“Thanks, that helps.”
“Is there a problem that I should know about?” Bodie asks.
“Not one you can help with at the moment, but I’ll give your friend a call.”
Bodie bursts out laughing. “Be sure to tell him that.”
I hang up on him, then dial the number that West wrote down for me. Someone answers after the first ring.
“Hello? This is Fletcher Farley,” a deep man’s voice answers.
“Hi, you don’t know me, but someone told me to call you—actually, two people. I have a little bit of a problem, you see.”
“What seems to be the problem?”
“I walked into the middle of a murder scene?” I end it with a question. Maybe this guy investigates mail fraud. I don’t want to stress him too much by bringing up the M word.
“Where are you now?” His tone completely changes.
“Driving through Newport, trying to shake a tail and make it out of this alive. They were waiting for me at the police station.”
“Who told you to call me?”
“Bodie King.”
“That checks out,” he mutters.
“And West Turner.”
“Ah. Perfect. You’ll be just fine then.”
“Perfect? Fine? He said you could help me! I was looking for more practical help, not a motivational speech.”
Something sounds suspiciously like a chuckle on the other end of the phone. “Go to West. I’ll look into things here, but I’m too far to help right now. Think you can get to him?”
“He didn’t seem inclined to be helpful.”
“You can either go to him or try to make it to Riverly. We’re about two hours from Newport. I can stay on the line with you if you want.”
I see a series of side streets ahead and make the executive decision to try and double back.
“I’ll call you back in a minute. I have to lose these guys.” I drop my phone in my lap, not sure if I even managed to hang up the call.
Four sharp turns later and I’m shooting past them on a side street and in the other direction.
I have two options: try to make it out of here and to safety in Riverly, or risk a grumpy sailor helping me.
I glance at my nearly empty gas tank.
Who am I kidding? I need West Turner.