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)
I look down at him on his back, making no attempt to get up, probably because he’s not got the energy. Now here is a man who will understand my sleep deprivation. Not that I can tell him I’m deprived of sleep. Poor guy is fucking knackered.
“Another rough night?” I ask, sipping some coffee before setting it on the towel cabinet.
His head drops to the side, his tired, red-rimmed eyes looking me up and down. “I’m so tired, Brad,” he breathes, and I laugh.
“Don’t ever say that in front of Rose.”
He hums, closing his eyes, staying exactly where he is, on his back, on the mat, in the gym. I lower to the bench on the other side of the room, smiling to myself. The Angel-faced Assassin, The Brit, Danny Black, put on his ass by a newborn baby. Uncle Carlo would turn in his fucking grave. And that’s another thing. Where the fuck is his body? I’m sure Danny will beat that information out of Sandy when he finds him.
I fall to my back and look up at the weights. They look really heavy this morning. Really fucking heavy. I close my eyes, resting them for just a moment, thinking someone around here needs to get better coffee. I need just a few minutes. I sigh, my back melding into the leather.
Red.
Fuck!
I shoot up.
And smack my head on the pole. “Shit.” I blink, dazed, glancing around. Danny’s still on the mat, mouth open, catching flies. “Fucking hell.”
“What the fuck are you two doing?”
James is in the doorway, looking between Danny and me, one lethal eyebrow lifted in amusement. “What’s the time?” I ask, feeling around on the floor for my cell.
“Eight.”
“No shit.” What a result. Another two hours in the bag. Maybe I’ll only need two grams of coke today. For fuck’s sake. I dodge the pole, sitting up, rubbing at my forehead. “I need to get to the club.”
“We need to have a conversation,” James counters.
That’s worrying. “What about?”
“Beau.” He paces over to Danny and toes him with his boot. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Daddy’s tired,” he mumbles. “Please, darling, go to sleep.”
I chuckle, and James smiles, pulling his foot back and booting Danny in the thigh. “Wake up.”
Danny opens one eye. Snarls. “Do you want to die today?”
“Do you?” James counters, making me straighten, focused.
“What’s going on?”
“I had a call from Higham,” James says, and both Danny and I visibly tense. It’s a matter of days before our FBI friend retires. Poor guy can’t stand the heat. “Beau’s digging.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I breathe, resting my elbows on my knees, looking at the screen of my cell, seeing a missed call from Nolan. “Can’t you control that woman?” I thumb the button to call him back.
“Do you want to die too?”
“Death’s probably better than my current torture,” I mumble, ignoring James’s questioning look, lifting my cell to my ear. His big mouth is probably why Beau’s giving me looks like that too. I’ll never fold under the pressure to confirm whatever they think they know. Because they don’t know. “What’s up?” I say when Nolan answers.
“Leon’s here to pick up some beer for the café. How much am I giving him?”
“Wait there,” I say, putting my phone on my shoulder. “Leon’s at the club to pick up. How much?”
“A million. All in twenties.” Danny struggles to sit up, scrubbing his palms down his face. “Tell him to put it in the bunker for now.”
“Did you get that?” I ask, my cell back at my ear.
“I heard.”
“I’ll be in later.” I hang up and stand, stretching. “So what’s Higham said?” I ask, collecting my coffee and downing it, my nose wrinkling. It’s cold. But it’s caffeine.
James opens the door and peeks out before closing it again. Makes sense, since Beau is the gym’s most frequent visitor, and that won’t change now she’s expecting Baby Enigma. “The report in the paper the day after Danny went after Sandy all those months ago detailed the bodies of four men.”
“And?” I ask.
James looks at me tiredly. “Don’t you think Beau would have counted the number of men that were with Sandy when they arrived at the house before Danny chased them down and went all Die Hard on them, Brad?”
“Fuck,” Danny breathes.
“Fuck,” I mimic. That woman is a pain in our fucking asses. She’s also really fucking useful. So she knows one Russian bastard walked away from that particular shootout. “You think she’s suspicious?”
“Beau’s suspicious of everything. It’s innate.” James lowers to a bench. “We all know she won’t stop with Higham. The last thing you need is her finding out Sandy is still alive.”
Because she’ll tell Rose.
“He won’t be alive soon,” Danny growls, the scar on his face glowing, his hand rubbing across his thigh where Sandy and his men buried a bullet in The Brit. Pray for Sandy.