Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
“Here,” Drake says, holding out his phone, showing me an image of the rear of the Escalade. The license plate’s blurred. But nothing Otto can’t fix. “Send it to me.” I give his shoulder a slap. “Good work.” I back up, ready to head to my car, but a cop car at the end of the road catches my eye, cruising leisurely. Or conveniently?
“I think we might be looking at the reason why they fucked off,” Tank muses, eyes on the cop car.
“A lookout?” Drake says, glancing up and down the street, searching.
“Definitely.” I put my cigarette between my lips and straighten out my suit jacket as the cop car roll up beside us. “Evening,” I say with a smile through my cigarette. “Anything I can help you with?”
The officer gives each of us a moment of his eyes, his partner leaning across to get his fill too. “Brad Black,” the driver says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. There’s not a cop in the state of Florida who doesn’t know who I am. Who Danny is. Who James is.
“The American one,” his partner muses.
“You sure about that, old chap?” I say in a British accent both the boys would crucify me for, blowing my smoke toward the car.
“There was a report of gunshots.”
“Here? I didn’t hear any gunshots.” I look back to Tank and Drake. “Did you hear any gunshots?”
“No gunshots,” Tank says as Drake shakes his head.
I return my attention to the cops and smile. “Definitely no gunshots.”
Both look like they’re chewing wasps, their eyes narrowing to slits. “Good night.”
“Farewell, gents.”
The driver shifts the car into gear and drives away, and I trudge back into the club, needing a drink. I sit on a stool at the bar and wave Mason over as I text Otto the license plate number, Paul Kalkbrenner’s No Goodbye booming.
“I thought you were leaving.” Mason pulls down a tumbler and grabs a bottle, pouring neat.
“I was. Then an Escalade tried to pull a drive-by on me.”
“What?” Nolan hops on the stool next to me, looking me up and down. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I click send and accept my drink, knocking it back. “Make sure the footage isn’t available if the police come calling. They were sniffing around outside just now.”
“Got it.” Nolan’s off promptly, and Mason leans on the bar, twisting a tuft of his beard as he looks past me.
“What?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.
“One of the girls.”
“What about them?”
“I walked into the dressing room earlier without knocking.”
I look at him tiredly.
“I know,” Mason relents. “In my defense, no one’s shift had started so I didn’t think anyone was here.”
“Is there a point to this, other than you copping a bonus look at the tits you see every day?”
He leans on the bar, lowering his voice. “She was startled.”
“I would be too if a hairy, pierced fucker like you walked in on me getting dressed.” I slide my empty across to him in instruction to fill. “Get to the point.”
“She was on a cell. Nothing unusual. Except her cell was on the dressing table.”
My eyebrows jump up. “Two cells?”
Mason nods. “I heard Danny’s phone was bugged. I also heard some Mexicans and Russians have shown up dead. And you just got shot at outside.” He rises, taking another glass down and pouring himself some water. “I think now is the time to question everything, right?”
“Right,” I say, looking over my shoulder. “Which one?”
“Ella.”
One of the newer girls. She and Erica are popular. I nod, watching the Amazonian-looking beauty grind down on the stage, her long, straight black hair skimming the floor with her pussy. “How long is left of her set?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
I get up and head to the dressing rooms, knocking, listening, and entering when I get no indication that anyone is in there. I pull out my car keys, get the master for the lockers and open Ella’s, pulling out a backpack. I dump it on the chair nearby and open, going in. I find one phone. Dig a little deeper. And find another.
Both are iPhones, one newer than the other. Both have the same screen saver. A golden retriever. Cute. I pocket both the phones and put her bag back, securing the locker and returning to the club.
I give Mason a nod, silently telling him to expect a complaint from staff about missing belongings, and neck the last of my drink, checking the time. I have fifteen minutes to make it to the Four Seasons. I’m not worried. She’ll wait.
I text Danny and James as I leave.
We need to talk.
I get in my Mercedes, looking up and down the street as I do, wondering if today is the day we stop moving around alone again. Wondering if we’re vulnerable again. I pull off, driving sensibly, in no rush to get to the hotel. My head is reeling with so much, and I’m at a massive disadvantage right now, without the brain power to process the unexpected developments today—the killings, the emblems, Danny’s bugged cell, the drive-by, the dancer with two phones.