A Hasty Retreat Trey
A Hasty Retreat
Trey
Twelve Hours Earlier
The message was received loud and clear, delivered in the bathroom stall at the Atlanta airport.
Give us what we asked for or suffer the consequences. Walk out of here, now, and do it fast, or they’re dead.
It’s bad enough that his past has caught up to him, but now that Eden fucking Barrow knows he’s alive and well and has her tentacles into his world again, he has no choice.
Not anymore. Getting as far away as possible should bring him enough time to fix this.
It is the only way to make sure Brooklyn, Margot, and the kids are safe.
He can make a deal—do this last job, give them what they want, show them where he’s hidden it all—and they will live.
He might not make it, but honestly, he doesn’t care about himself anymore.
He knows he’s a dead man walking. Their safety is all he wants.
No one else has to get hurt to make the point.
He didn’t do what they wanted last time, and look what happened.
Trey looks back once at the terminal glass, as if his family will be there, waving him off. But of course they won’t. They are on the plane. He got them out, at least. He got them safe.
How the hell had they found him? With the flight being diverted . . . How?
He gets into the back of the black SUV. It is empty, a blessing.
“We won’t take too much of your time,” the driver says pleasantly, pulling from the curb. “Buckle up. Don’t need any accidents.”
The driver is in shades and a black beanie. No, not circumspect at all, idiot.
He drives to the end of the terminal and, just past the last entrance, stops at the curb. A heartbeat later, the man from the bathroom—curly blond hair, a ball cap with no logo, a surgical mask, ice-chip eyes—is in the SUV. A heartbeat after that, they are off again.
The corner where the driver stopped is hidden from view of the terminal. Avoiding the cameras, clearly.
The blond looks over his shoulder at Trey.
“Just get it over with,” Trey says. He is ready to die. He has to be; he never knows when the breath he’s just taken will be his last. That’s what happens when you deceive everyone close to you. He sends a thought to Brooklyn and the kids. Have good lives.
The shot doesn’t come.
“Oh, it’s not that simple,” the man says. “Why were you running, Andrew? With your sweet family, too.”
“Running? We were going on vacation, asshole.”
“Tsk. We are busy men. Don’t bother lying. You have something of mine. I want it back.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man brings out a SIG Sauer and begins casually screwing on a suppressor. The driver is also armed, a Glock on his hip. Trey assumes there are plenty of weapons in the SUV, just not visible.
This is bad. This is very bad. I love you, Brooklyn.
“Sure you do. You have it on you, I assume? Hand it over. This will go much easier if you cooperate, Andrew.”
“Still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.” He waves the gun back and forth.
The man’s voice is muffled through the mask.
Trey doesn’t know the face, can’t place him anywhere.
“The money, friend. I’m talking about the money.
You took it. I want it back. Do that, and your family won’t die.
And believe me, I will enjoy taking them out.
One by one. All that’s left. Your parents first. Then your sweet new wife.
Then the little boy. I’ll save the little girl for last. I know someone who would love her to pieces.
Wish I’d done that last time. Chloe was adorable.
She would have been a lot of fun. Alas, a point needed to be made. ”
Trey freezes. Blood. So much blood. No. Stop. He’s baiting you. Don’t fall for it.
“Hurt them, and I will kill you. Slowly.”
“Then give us the mon-ey,” the blond singsongs.
Trey moves like a rattlesnake. His finger has been on the seat belt this whole time.
He unlatches and surges forward, through the seats into the front, grabbing the barrel of the gun and shoving the slide back into the blond’s face.
He connects and the man’s nose crunches.
The gun goes off, shooting a hole in the ceiling, but missing him entirely.
“Fuck!” the blond screams. Trey dives toward the passenger door.
The driver wheels the SUV hard to the right.
Trey smashes against the console, his shoulder leaving a dent in the plastic.
But he’s grappling for his life, and the adrenaline lets him continue moving.
He is a blur. He kicks the driver’s arm and hears a satisfying crack and howl as he gets his fingers into the door latch.
He rips it open and dives out the door, his hand still grasping the blond’s weapon, the barrel facing his own chest.
He hits the asphalt hard. The SUV squeals to a halt, wheels locked, loose gravel flying.
The blond gets out calmly, blood streaming down his face, and levels the driver’s Glock at Trey’s head.
But Trey is still moving, rolling three times, then squaring the sights and pulling the trigger.
The blond ducks back inside the vehicle with a curse, and Trey kicks to his feet.
He zigzags into the median, right into oncoming traffic.
Cars screech; horns blare. The pffft of the second weapon snaps out behind him, and he waits for the sharp sting of the bullet in his back, but it doesn’t come. The bastard missed.
Now he’s across all four lanes of highway and into the woods. He runs as fast as he possibly can, dodging trees and branches, unsure where he’s going, only knowing he has to put as much distance as possible between himself and the blond. Every step, panting now, the words are a mantra.
Hurt them, and I will kill you.