by Sophia Gray
Falcon could hear the string of expletives that whoever the sentry was talking to—likely Martin—shouted over the phone. Then the conversation calmed for a moment. The sentry's face shifted from irritation back to a more neutral expression. "All right. Fine."
The sentry hung up the phone. "He said to send him through anyway."
The sentry at Falcon's side jabbed the barrel of his gun into his ribs. "Move," he snarled. He turned back to his partner. "You gonna search his bike?"
The other man nodded.
Falcon walked as slowly as possible, measuring his steps. He could feel Martin's guard growing impatient with him, mostly by the increasingly painful pressure of the barrel of the gun, punctuated by the occasional jab meant to hurry him. But Falcon was content to take his time. He knew as long as he could make Martin believe he knew where the drugs were, he held the upper hand. Which meant they would be conducting this meeting at his pace.
The trek up to the area with the warehouses was a long one, at least half a mile, and all of it in the open. He could feel the blazing midday sun scorching his face, the sweat gathering against his collar. That heat, coupled with the bone-dry clouds of dust they kicked up as they made the march irritated his throat. He wished Martin had picked somewhere with air conditioning for this fucking meeting.
As they approached the main cluster of buildings, he struggled to make out the loose half-circle of figures that had gathered out in the empty space in the middle.
The very same space where he'd witnessed Martin's massacre of all those men nearly six years ago. The images of that day flashed back into his mind, accompanied by the strangled screams of Martin's victims. He saw the blood splattered across the ground again. So much blood. Pools that soaked into the soil like rainwater.
He'd grown a lot harder since that day. He'd seen his fair share of death in his days with the Raging Reapers. It came with the work. It had ceased to move him long ago.
But today it was different. This wasn't just the possibility of seeing strangers or acquaintances strewn across the ground or dumped into shallow graves. The blood he saw in his mind's eye foretold the way this day would most likely end for him—with Bridgette's bloody body on the ground instead of some nameless drug dealer.
It was the stress of the moment, the feeling that he was walking to his execution, that made his overactive imagination so potent. But the closer he drew to the group of people gathered before him, the more his memories of carnage mingled with Bridgette's face, until all he could see was her lifeless corpse and Martin's sick, twisted, grinning face lording over her.
He wasn't going to let that happen. He just had to draw this out, he reminded himself. Keep Martin talking. Give him the runaround.
They finally reached the center of the buildings. Martin stood in the middle of the loose half-circle, flanked by five of his body guards, all of them dressed like the sentries and armed with semi-automatics.
Seeing Martin again for the first time in six years provoked a visceral reaction in Falcon. It was the same feeling he imagined a wolf felt right in the moment before it went in for the kill. If it hadn't been for all the guns, and the certainty of death, Falcon would have lunged straight at Martin and tried to tear the bastard's throat out with his bare hands.
He wanted to see him on the ground, helpless and terrified. He wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp. He wanted it so badly that he could almost feel the satisfying impact of his fists against Martin's face, could almost hear the snap of the man's nose and the sound of his blows connecting with the drug lord's face.
The look on Martin's face was almost unreadable. A satisfied smirk played around his face, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly beneath his mustache. He was obviously happy to see Falcon there alone and unarmed and completely at his mercy. But his dark eyes remained completely cold, filled to the brim with a caustic loathing. The result was an unnerving expression—a juxtaposition that made the man look slightly unhinged.
Falcon forced himself to remain calm. He forced his own expression into a mask as opaque as granite. It was time for the biggest bluff of his life. He couldn't lose his composure now.
"Martin," he called out. "How are you doing, you sack of shit?"
Martin's lip twitched a little. Falcon couldn't tell if it was in rage or amusement. "My, my, Kyle. All grown up. And so handsome, too." Martin paced forward, making his way around Falcon like an appraiser at a statue gallery.
Falcon made a point of keeping his front toward Martin. He wasn't about to give the man even the slightest feeling of superiority, not if he could help it. He had to maintain his position of power right now. If Martin thought for a minute that he held all the cards, there was no way Falcon would be able to string him along. And he needed to draw this out.
Falcon did his best to grin cockily. "You're starting to look your age, Martin. Do your boys here have to help you change your Depends?"
"Let's skip the pleasantries. Where the hell is my package, Kyle? I thought I was very clear. You bring my product or your girl suffers. So…"
"You thought I was going to walk out here with a couple hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine, no guarantees, no questions asked? No, Martin. You need me. You aren't going to see a dime of that shit unless you give me some very specific guarantees."
Martin snorted derisively. "You seem to think that you're in a position to be making deals. But you're not. It was noble of you to come out here, but if you can't follow simple instructions, you're of no use to me. So I'm going to count to three, and if you don't tell me what I want to know by three, my friends here are going to fill you with bullets. And you get to die knowing your girlfriend in there is in for a hell of a lot worse than what I did to you the first time around. Because believe me when I say she'll be paying for your sins."
Falcon had to fight hard not to react to that. Any little crack in his expression and he was lost. His gut clenched at Martin's last words, because he knew only too well that Bridgette still might suffer in the end, even if he came close to pulling off his plan. But for now he had to play it cool. He had to pretend everything was fine.
"You go right ahead," he said. "She doesn't know a damned thing. You kill me and you kill any chance you had of recovering your product. Besides, I'm not really here for her. I'm here to talk terms."
"Terms?" Martin hissed. "Here are my terms. You tell me where the stash is right now, or I drag your girl out here and start cutting parts off until you talk."
Falcon shrugged. "I'm not asking for much. Just a finder's fee. I'm thinking forty percent of market value. Cash. Like you said, I could use a little nest egg."
Martin moved to strike Falcon across the cheek.
But Falcon wasn't a lanky teenager anymore. He dodged the blow easily, sidestepping to the left. He didn't dare to strike back, though. Not when he was outnumbered and unarmed.
"Like I said, you're getting old, Martin. Your Depends are slowing you down."
Martin growled and jerked his head at the sentry who'd escorted Falcon. The man stepped up behind Falcon and rammed the butt of his gun into his side, causing Falcon to double over in pain.
"You've got some nerve," Martin growled, "I'll give you that. But no brains. You think you're smart enough to lie to me. To come here after our little chat earlier and pretend you're over your girl, that you just want to cut a deal with me. I see right through it."
Falcon struggled back to his feet. The pain radiating through his side was nothing, he told himself. "You think forty is too much? I mean, hell, I thought I was being generous. I didn't turn around and sell the stuff right away, did I? I could have kept one hundred percent and headed off to a new country. Shit, that’s enough pure coke to start a new life, especially when you know how to cut and push the stuff yourself. But then you invited me out here, and I thought to myself, you know, fair's fair. Moving’s a shit ton of work, and I’m pretty comfortable right here. I figured, I can negotiate a fair bonus for myself and move on with my life
. Now, I’m pretty sure forty’s the market rate. But for you, Martin, I'm willing to go down to thirty-five. And that's my final offer."
"Shut him up," Martin snapped at the sentry, who immediately dealt Falcon another blow, this time to the small of his back.
Falcon buckled again, a reflexive reaction to the sudden onslaught of pain that ran up his spine and through that whole region of his body.
"And bring the girl out here. I'm done wasting time."
Falcon's vision blurred a little from the force of the pain he was experiencing. When his vision finally cleared and he managed to stand up again, he saw two of Martin's men leading Bridgette, her hands bound behind her back and her face tear-stained, out into the middle of the space between the buildings.
Her eyes locked with his. He saw a fleeting bit of relief there, which was immediately engulfed by dread and uncertainty.
He felt his resolve weaken a little as soon as he locked eyes with her. He desperately wanted to reassure her that she was going to make it out of this alive. But he didn't trust himself enough to make her believe those words.
He wanted to take her in his arms again. To make her feel safe, to dry those tears. He wanted to tell her that he had more than just a half-assed plan that was entirely dependent on a lot of good luck.
But all he could do was stare at her, dumbstruck, trying to burn every line of her face into his memory. Because if he died today, he was going out thinking of her and nothing else.
Chapter 24
Bridgette
Kyle had come after all. And he was alone. It was good to see him, so good, especially after the uncertainty of the last forty five minutes. She knew it was completely irrational, since he looked to be just as screwed as she was, but she felt safer seeing him there. Or maybe it was just comforting to know that she wasn’t facing this down alone.
The man at her back pushed her forward, causing her to nearly stumble. Her body was stiff and bruised from lying on the floor for so long. Neither of her guards had bothered to help her up until Martin sent someone to retrieve her.
She had to squint against the bright sunlight now. Martin’s men forced her forward until she was standing next to him, well within his reach. The sun was directly behind Kyle, meaning Martin had to be at least partially blind. She was glad he didn’t try to reposition to get a better angle. It was a small advantage, and it wouldn’t make a shred of difference unless Kyle had an actual plan in place, but, still, it was better than nothing.
She cringed when Martin placed a hand on her shoulder and pushed her in front of him, toward Kyle.
“Now,” Martin sighed, “let’s get down to brass tacks. Tell me where my drugs are or I’ll start naming body parts for them to shoot off.”
Kyle locked eyes with her for a moment, his expression calm and intense. He was trying to tell her something, but she didn’t know what. To trust him? To follow his lead? Then, still perfectly cool, he turned back to Martin. “You think I’d come here without some kind of assurance? How stupid do you think I am? I’ve got some friends holding onto your goddamn stash, Martin, and if you want to see any of it, both of us have to walk out of here alive. Otherwise you’ll never see a gram. You know why? Because they’re going to blow that shit sky high just to spite you. You touch a hair on her head or mine and your little operation here’s going to take a couple hundred thousand dollar bath with no possibility of recovery. How do you think that’s going to go over with your supplier?”
"You expect me to believe that?" Martin hissed. "No one in their right mind would burn that kind of money. And don't think for a second that you can pull one over on me. I can smell a bluff a mile away."
Bridgette watched as Kyle calmly cocked an eyebrow at Martin. "Really? Can you? Man, that's some confidence. I wouldn't be taking any chances, personally, when I had so much riding on it. I know we've had our differences, Martin, but I'm trying to be reasonable here. I'm happy with thirty-five percent. That's reasonable. If you need to make up for lost profits, hey, just cut the shit a little more and sell it to your most desperate junkies. I know you don't run a customer complaints department. All you need to do is let us walk out of here. We have ourselves a little gentlemen's handshake, I'll take you straight to where my guys are keeping the stuff, and we both walk away happy. All right?"
Bridgette stared at him numbly. What the hell was he doing? He couldn't have figured out where the drugs were. Martin hadn't given him enough time. She doubted he'd even gone back to the bakery, and even if he had, she'd covered the ceiling tile up too well. If he and his guys hadn't thought to check up there in the past week, they sure as hell hadn't had a revelation in the past couple of hours.
So what was he doing? He could only keep Martin on a wild goose chase for so long. Even if she could somehow communicate to him where she'd found the drugs, she knew Martin would kill them both as soon as they retrieved them, likely right there in the basement of her bakery. It was almost too perfect of a setup.
Maybe his plan was just to string Martin along long enough that he slipped up somehow. What that slipup could possibly look like she had no idea, but maybe that was the best he could come up with in such a short time period.
She glanced furtively back at Martin. The drug lord's lip had curled back in a menacing sneer, revealing a row of yellowing teeth.
"Do you have trouble understanding English, my friend? You'll be lucky if you walk away from this with your lives, much less a cut of my fucking profits." He grabbed Bridgette by the shoulder again, yanking her sharply against him. "I'm sick of this dance," Martin continued, his voice dangerously low. "Too much chitchat. I'm gonna count to three."
Bridgette heard the sound of metal sliding against fabric, and suddenly she felt a cold, heavy pressure against her skull. She didn't need to look to know Martin had pulled a gun on her.
"And if I don't hear what I want to hear, well, I'll blow your girlfriends brains out right here. I think you're even in the splash zone, Kyle."
Kyle's impenetrable calm wavered for a second at that. Through that minute fracture she glimpsed a powerful rage mixed with an unbearable fear.
God, she hoped he had a plan.
"One."
Bridgette closed her eyes. She couldn't watch this. She didn’t want to see the pain on Kyle’s face, the broken defeat that seemed so close to winning over his neutral mask.
"Two."
Wasn't he going to do something? Even if it was another shit plan, it was still better than not even trying. If he didn't say something in the next second, she would. She'd give these motherfuckers what they wanted if it meant she had even the tiniest chance of getting back to Gabby.
"Three—"
"Wait," Kyle bellowed. "Hang on, hang on. I'll tell you where your goddamned drugs are! They're in the bakery. Bridgette didn't know a damned thing about them. She had nothing to do with this, I swear, on my life. I'll take you to them, and you can do whatever the hell you're going to do with me then, but leave her out of this. She doesn't know anything and she doesn't need to know anything."
Bridgette felt the pressure on her skull lighten a little, though she could still feel the barrel of the gun there. She breathed a small sigh of relief.
"If you try anything, she dies," Martin clarified.
"I'm being straight with you. I'm not going to do a damned thing. Like I said, you do whatever you want with me. But you leave her out of this."
Martin seemed to be considering the offer. "I'll go with you," he decided at last. "She stays here. Once I have what I want, she'll be free to go. But you're still going to pay the full price for your audacity."
Martin's dark words lingered for a moment between them.
Bridgette wished Kyle could somehow tell her what was going on. She couldn't breathe, and not just because Martin had a gun to her head. He was putting himself on the line. He wasn't leaving her in a much better position, but still, he was at least trying to trade his life for hers.
She could feel tears slidi
ng down her cheeks, and she hoped that he could see, because she would never be able to tell him how much this meant to her. How much his sacrifice proved to her.
"Those are the terms," Kyle agreed quietly.
Bridgette thought for a moment that she saw his eyes flicker to the right, past Martin and his men and off into the distance. But she dismissed it as a product of her imagination. She was trying too desperately to find evidence that all was not lost.
Martin dropped the gun from Bridgette's head and pushed her back into the arms of his men. He shoved her hard, and she would have fallen to the ground if one of his guys hadn't snatched her by her upper arm and jerked her back to her feet.
"Let's go."
Suddenly the sound of a lone gunshot rang out in the empty complex. Bridgette crouched down instinctively, her eyes darting around wildly to see which of Martin's men had fired.
