Page 70 of The Finish Line
“I have a message from Palo.”
“No, you don’t.” It’s then I know how he found me.
And that Palo is most likely dead.
Fuck.
Dread filters from the center of my chest, circulating through my veins as I keep my mask in place while the implications of what’s next pummel me from within.
Pulling the man to stand, I lean in on him, pressing all of my weight against him. A pained whimper comes from his lips.
“It’s broad daylight, and you have the audacity to try and shadow me? Did you not know who you were coming after?” I click my tongue.
“You were not supposed to know I was here.”
“Passons au français parce que tu ne peux pas être aussi stupide. Tu devrais travailler ton anglais.” Let’s switch to French because you can’t be this stupid. You should work on your English.
“Je déteste l’Amérique. Je ne reviendrai pas.” I hate America. I will not return.
“Tu seras enterré ici si tu ne coopères pas.” You will be buried here, if you don’t cooperate.
“Je devais signaler où tu étais et avec qui.” I was to report where you were and who you were with.
“Et tu l’as fait?” And have you?
Fear flashes in my incompetent assailant’s eyes. It’s too fucking late.
And that’s the crux of the situation. As it always has been. If I had remained alone, there would be nothing to report. This would have been another day at the office in my old life, but my circumstances are different now, and the stakes are much higher. This morning, I had time in abundance. Time to try and help her understand my reasoning for the decisions that led me to the place I’m in. And for the last three weeks, I took for granted the freedom of being an average Joe.
“Have you sent pictures?”
Another nod, and I do my best not to snap his neck as I keep him pinned and lift his phone.
“Quel est le mot de passe?” What’s the password?
He rattles off a four-digit code, and I check his messages to see an active thread with a familiar area code. He’s been reporting for the last two days, his most recent text sent minutes ago to which he got no response. I make a note of the frequency of their texts and pocket his phone. The image of the snapshot of Cecelia at the entrance to her café has rage taking over.
Using my elbow, I black him out to keep from getting rupture marks on my knuckles for Cecelia to inspect. Once he’s unconscious, the two birds I trusted on watch, Oz and David, quickly drag him into their back seat. I scan them closely as they nervously load the car, each of them glancing over their shoulder to me. Both are dressed in plain clothes, with muscular builds, but Oz has a mohawk, which is eye-catching and distinctive in this town or any fucking other.
These are Russell’s most prized recruits?
He should know better.
Just as they close the door on their unconscious passenger, I step up to them both, seething.
“Why was your text too late?”
Oz is the first to speak. “We weren’t sure—”
“You weren’t sure?” I clench my fists to keep from lashing out. “Captain Obvious has been here for two fucking days.” I look between them. “I don’t give second chances. Not at this post. ID him and bleed him of information until you’re sure he’s working here alone. Call Russell, get six more birds here, two to replace the two of you. I want them here today. I don’t give a fuck how. He’s in your custody now and your responsibility until I say so. Let me down on this,” I snarl, “and you’re fucking out.”
Clipping wings isn’t something I threaten often, especially when they’ve earned their ink, but this is a major fuckup, and one inked men should never make.
They nod, offering zero excuse, no doubt due to the murderous threat in my eyes. Once they’re back in the sedan, I search for anyone who might’ve seen the spectacle before taking off back toward the Camaro. Behind the wheel, I feel the needles start in my chest and run my hand over my jaw.
The sun beams through a raincloud as a new arrival grabs a cart at the entrance of the store. He’s probably here to pick up a power tool, nothing more, and carry on with the rest of the day—an average Joe.
Envy shoots through me as he strolls in with weightless shoulders.