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)
James inhales, sitting back in his chair, eyes on a picture on the table. “Bernard King,” he says quietly.
I snatch my cell out of Danny’s hand and walk over to the table, looking down at the image of the notorious London gangster. My heart slows. “What the fuck?” My cigarette hangs from my mouth, smoke billowing up into my face. It doesn’t hamper my view.
Red.
I look up at the men. Then back down at the image to check I’m not seeing things. Bernard King. With Pearl.
How the hell—
What is she—
But . . .
She said she loved me. Why the fuck of all the things I could be thinking about am I thinking about that? Because it was a lie. Yet she never actually said those words.
No, she said she’d show me with her actions. She never said anything.
Lies.
All fucking lies. Everything starts to click into place. The Audi was him. She brought him to the mansion . . . the shoot-out . . .
That he got away from.
Her cue to get the fuck out of here? And she has.
What the fuck has she been feeding him?
More thoughts hit my brain. The drive-by. The incident out the back of the club where I thought I’d lost Nolan. She wasn’t hit by any of the bullets.
My blood boils dangerously. I feel like I’m going to explode.
Leaving the men, I stalk into the changing room, feeling their eyes following me. Breathe, Brad. “Fuck!” I punch the locker repeatedly, and I only stop when my knuckles split and blood starts smearing the metal. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She’s played me.
Made me look like a total fucking mug.
Gone.
And she’s took my fucking heart and any scrap of sanity I had left with her.
47
DANNY
* * *
I hear the sound of a fist meeting metals doors over and over and eventually stand to go stop him before he destroys the whole place.
I still when James reaches for my arm to halt me, shaking his head mildly. I don’t listen to many people. James is one of the few I do. So I sit back down, eyes on the changing room door.
“How did you get these pictures?” James asks Higham.
“British intelligence. They’re keeping an eye on King and want to know what he’s doing in Miami.”
I hum as another collection of bangs ring out from the changing room. “Thanks, Higham,” I say quietly, looking at him. He doesn’t want to be here for the next conversation. “Don’t go far.” He nods and leaves the table.
James raises a hand, frowning down at his phone. “The X5 has been taken to the warehouse bought by the Mexicans.”
I shoot him a look. “Well, that settles the question mark hanging over that. The Russians and the Mexicans are collaborating.”
“To take us down,” James says, eyes like lasers on the table. “And they’re getting their stock from King.”
“And Pearl, fucking Pearl, has been sitting pretty here feeding them information on . . . what?” I close my eyes and inhale as more bangs come from the changing room. “I can’t fucking think.” Shooting up, I stalk away and barge into the changing rooms, and the moment I see him, I suck back the barrage of abuse that’s loaded and ready to fire. He’s on the bench, head in his hands. “What is this?” I ask. “The extreme reaction?”
Brad looks up at me, aghast. “She’s a fucking mole.”
“Or a honey trap,” I muse, eyeing him. “Did the bee take the honey?”
His face screws up in disgust. “Fuck, no.” He stands, hands in his hair, and I watch him walk circles around the changing room, sporadically cursing and hitting the lockers. James enters, obviously wondering why Brad’s still hitting things when I came in to stop him hitting things.
I shake my head. I don’t know what the fuck is going on. Brad’s so fucking mad, and I have never seen him like this. Ever. I know he wanted to fuck Pearl. Fought his compulsion. Maybe that’s why his head’s spinning. He nearly took the bait. “Look, Brad, we have a few important problems to solve right now, and none of them include fixing your damaged ego.” I see it coming a mile away.
His fist.
Toward my face.
I lean back, swerving it, and dive at his waist, taking him to the floor. “The fuck?” I roar, straddling him and firing a few right hooks. They should knock him out. Not Brad. His eyes demented, he launches himself upward and nuts me straight on the nose. Jesus Christ, not again. The pain radiates through my head and fogs my vision, and I fall back, cupping my bleeding face. “Fuck.”
“Okay, I’m stepping in,” James says, out of patience. He drags Brad up and pins him against the dented lockers, his finger in his face. “Do not make me go all Enigma on your arse, Brad. My mood’s slipping by the minute.” He slams him into the metal and turns his attention onto me. He doesn’t have a chance to deliver the same warning. I hold my hand up in surrender, using my other to push into the floor and get myself to my feet, blood pouring from my nose. “Get your fucking shit together,” James barks. “We’ve got the Russians, Mexicans, and now a power-tripping British psycho all plotting our demise, so your focus would be fucking appreciated.” He storms out and slams the door.