Page 18 of Shadow Man
“She’s lost.”
I lost her.
“Is that a euphemism for her head space?” Rick pauses at the entrance to his study.
“I found her in an alleyway a couple of hours ago.” I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans to stop them drifting anywhere near my chain again. “She checked out of rehab early. Decided to celebrate with a gram of blow. A couple of guys were busy taking advantage until I rang the bell on them.” A grim smile threatens to break through my deadpan expression, and I catch him glancing at my bloodstained hands. I don't regret kills. I don't even consider them a sin anymore.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Do you need cleanup?”
“Done and dusted.”
“And then?”
“I turned my back,” I say, my gaze slamming into his.
For once, Rick doesn't capitalize on the chance to act like a dickhead. Instead, he pulls out his cell and starts tapping out a number.
“How many men have you got, stateside?”
“None. They’re all on a flight, Pacific Ocean-bound. Already off-radar.”
Dante’s private island has location coordinates more enigmatic than those of the Bermuda Triangle. It’s his base. His life. His family. His home. I used to consider it mine too, but I’m not so sure anymore. I’ve been drifting rootless for a while now. If I’m honest, I’ve been drifting since I was twelve years old.
“Leave it with me… Danny?” Rick turns away as the call connects with his second. “I want eyes on a runaway. Sending you the details now.”
No one has the right to sound that concerned about her, except me.
“… I want her found and brought to me by sunrise.”
Over my dead body.
Next thing I know, I’m closing the distance between us, snatching the cell from his hand and chucking it across the foyer. It hits the wall and smashes on impact, sending shards of metal crap everywhere.
“What thefuck?” yells Rick.
We’re eyeball-to-eyeball now, barely a foot between us—my six-four giving me a minor advantage over his six-two, the width of my chest and biceps giving me even more. Despite this, I don’t underestimate him for a second. Men like Rick never fight clean.
“I don’t need your help locating her, Sanders,” I say, articulating every word to drive my point home. “That’smyfucking job.”
“Then what the hell are you doing in my house?” He slams his palms into my chest, shoving me away. “I’ll give you ten seconds to get the hell out of here before my gun is so far up your ass you’ll be cleaning bullets with your teeth.” He pushes me again, and I take it without stumbling. It takes a lot to bring me down.
“Is that all you got, Brooklyn?” I sneer.
“Go fuck yourself.” Another shove. “Slink back into Dante’s shadow where you belong. Playing with the big boys doesn't suit your job description.”
“Tell every dealer in the state to keep a thirty-yard distance,” I say, pushing back on him to even up the posturing.
“From who? Miss Phantom?” Rick steadies himself, his eyes now fresh warning slits, but I’m done paying attention. “You’re the asshole who lost her, remember?”
“I mean it, Sanders. If I hear one of your fucking friends has sold her coke again, I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Applaud us for bringing a snort or two of joy into what’s left of her life?” He shakes his head at me, his smirk re-merging like some kind of messed up sunshine. “Don’t forget who dragged her into hell in the first place, Joseph. She was having fun pouring drinks in my club and kissing boys in cars before you and Dante brought your war to her doorstep. Have you told her why she was taken yet?”
“This is a polite request,” I say, struggling to keep my cool—almost tasting the cheap thrill of his blood messing up his Persian Mashad rug. “The next one won’t be so pleasant.”
Rick scoffs at my threat. “Does the King of Colombia know you’re pissing all over his business relationships like this?”
“Leave Dante out of it. This is between you and me.”