Chapter 13
KAI
The Trading Post smelled like fried chicken and fresh bread, same as always. It should have been comforting, the kind of familiar scent that reminded me of stopping here with Mom for sandwiches when I was a kid. Instead it made my stomach roll.
I stood at the deli counter, watching the girl behind the glass layer turkey and provolone on two subs, her gloved hands quick and sure. She hummed along with a country song on the radio, off-key but cheerful. I envied her—someone whose biggest concern was slicing tomatoes straight.
Just an ordinary morning. That’s what I’d told myself. That’s what I’d told Jasmine.
Maybe they forgot about us. I’d thrown the line out like a lifeline before walking out her door.
She’d looked at me with those searching green eyes, wanting reassurance.
I’d given her a smile that didn’t feel convincing and brushed off her concern.
But even then, my nerves were crawling like fire ants under my skin.
And now, minutes later, I felt like a live wire.
Ordinary had left the Keys the night those bastards shoved a gun in my face.
I shifted my weight, scanned the store. Two tourists in floppy sunhats argued over which SPF to buy, their voices too loud, like they’d never learned to whisper.
A mom tugged her kid away from the candy rack, the boy’s sneakers squeaking on tile as he whined for a Snickers.
An older man thumbed through a newspaper by the register. Normal. Safe.
For half a breath, I let myself believe it could be true.
It had been five days, and they only gave me three.
Maybe they found the coke elsewhere. Not like they’d come tell me if they did.
That thought hadn’t occurred to me until that very moment, and when it did, I got a rush of hope.
I convinced myself that was indeed the most likely scenario.
Maybe we wouldn’t be hearing from them again after all.
I smiled to myself, but the deli girl must’ve thought I was smiling at her singing.
“Sorry. I can’t help myself. I love me some Jelly Roll.”
“No apologies needed. He’s awesome,” I said absentmindedly. Truth was I didn’t know his music at all.
Her brows scrunched together and she looked past me. “Did you want to order a sandwich?’
From close behind me, I heard, “No, just having a look around.”
I froze. I knew that voice. My heart seized and it took all my strength to turn to face him.
Couch Guy. The one who’d done most of the talking that night.
The goon with the shark smile and eyes too cold for this kind of heat.
Dark stubble shadowed his jaw, his T-shirt was a tight-fitting Key West souvenir, and a pair of knockoff sunglasses dangled from his collar.
He could’ve been any tourist stopping for snacks were it not for his steely gaze and his predator’s patience.
He didn’t address me directly, he just drifted down the aisle of chips like he belonged there, fingers trailing over Doritos bags he had no interest in buying.
My gut clenched. I saw him again the way I had that night in my living room—eyes flat, voice calm, Glock leveled like he was born holding it.
My heart raced, hard, but I forced myself not to react. Not here. Not in front of witnesses.
“Order’s up in a minute,” the deli girl chirped.
I nodded, grabbed a plastic basket, and stepped away as if I was browsing. The basket creaked in my grip, plastic threatening to crack.
The goon fell in beside me near the cereal aisle, close enough that his shoulder almost brushed mine. His cologne hit first, sharp and chemical under the fried chicken air. Then his voice, soft and easy, like we were old friends.
“Been a while.”
I kept my gaze locked on a box of Frosted Flakes. “Not long enough.”
He chuckled, dry and forced. “Any progress?”
“Working on it,” I said, tone steady despite shaking inside. “Got a couple solid leads, people asking questions. These things take time.”
His smile didn’t budge. He plucked a box of Corn Pops, turned it in his hands like he was studying ingredients, then set it back without looking. “Mm. We’ll see. My friends aren’t as patient as I am.”
My jaw ached from clenching. The deli girl called my name, waving a bag with my sandwiches. Her voice carried across the store, too bright, too loud.
I walked over and reached for the bag, but he was on my heels and caught my arm lightly, just a tap with two fingers against my wrist. My whole body went rigid.
“We’d hate for anything to happen to that pretty little girlfriend of yours,” he said, almost kindly. “She seems…special.”
A red haze flashed behind my eyes. It took everything I had not to drive my fist into his throat.
Jasmine’s laugh, her stubborn chin, her big green doe eyes when she’d looked at me over her coffee that morning—all played like a split-second movie.
And the final scene: her tied beside me, muzzle pressed to her temple, eyes wide with terror.
His doing. I wanted to kill him with my bare hands.
I jerked my arm free, forced my tone flat. “I told you I’m working on it. You want to give me your number so I can keep you updated?”
The goon’s smile widened, amused. “Don’t worry. We’ll find you.” He leaned closer, his breath warm at my ear. “Just make sure you’ve got something worth saying when we do.”
I grabbed the paper sack from the counter, muttered thanks to the deli girl, and strode out into the Florida sun. My heart hammered, sweat prickled the back of my neck, every sense turned up to high volume.
The parking lot shimmered in the heat, asphalt wavering like water.
I scanned every car, every shadow, half expecting to see backup leaning against a bumper.
A white van idled near the propane tanks.
A sedan with tinted windows sat too long at the edge of the lot.
My pulse spiked, certain they were watching.
But he seemed to have vanished as quickly as he appeared, out of nowhere. Back to nowhere. Or everywhere.
Climbing into the Jeep, my legs barely held me.
The shakes took over my whole body. Fear and rage were indiscernible, equally pervasive and pulsing through me in a full blown assault.
Hands locked on the wheel, forcing myself to breathe, the tears came.
Not since my mother’s death had I cried like that.
My reflection in the rearview looked wild-eyed, like a cornered animal.
Jasmine’s face swam into my mind. Her relief this morning when I’d told her Spence was in the loop. Her faint smile when I promised everything would be fine. And me, brushing off her worry with that hollow line—maybe they forgot.
I gripped the wheel harder, guilt rising like bile. They hadn’t forgotten. They were closer than ever. And she was still right in the middle of it.
I pulled out my phone and texted Jasmine:
Not trying to worry you, but be sure you keep the doors locked, just in case.
Text bubbles started immediately, and relief washed over me at that minuscule confirmation that she was okay.
I will. You just worry about catching our dinner.
I put the truck in gear, pulled out slow, then circled the block once, then twice, watching mirrors, checking if anyone followed. Paranoia clung like humidity, sticking to my skin.
This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.