by Elle Maxwell
“And mine is yours,” I whisper through my tears as I watch the sun set outside my window.
Though I’m sorely out of practice, I pray for the first time in too many years, hoping my negligence won’t negate the validity of my request.
“Please, God, keep him safe.”
40. MR. CRIME FIGHTER GUY
Graham
Hey, God. It’s me, Graham. Long time no talk, big guy.
I’m hoping you can do me a solid. I’m sure you’re tired of people only reaching out when they need something—guilty, sorry—but I think you’ll get why this one is important.
So, if you’re the one with the remote control up there in Heaven, do you think you could change my dad’s screen to the Graham channel for a bit? You see, for years I’ve been hoping that he’s too busy watching football to keep an eye on me, but tonight I’m helping take down a bad guy and it’s finally something I want him to witness.
Crazy, right? Me, being Mister Crime Fighter Guy?
Wish me luck! (You can watch, too, but I figure you’ve got a lot going on, so I totally understand if you don’t.)
Thanks a million! I promise I’ll go to church soon.
* * *
Eli looks like shit. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s been reaching deeper into the cookie jar of his own product. Like the last time I saw him, though, I know not to underestimate him.
I’ve had plenty of time to think about the way he grabbed Mackenzie, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the only reason she’s still alive is because Eli’s such a sicko. He wouldn’t go straight for the kill shot—or in this case, a fatal wound with his knife—because he wanted to drag it out and have some fun first. He’s also too smart to fire a gun in a neighborhood like that, so he probably only had it on him as an intimidation tactic to persuade her into his car. Thank God that didn’t happen. I shudder to even think about it … so I force myself to shut those thoughts down. It’s not the time. I have to keep my shit together right now.
“Are you packing?” Eli asks.
I give him a cocky smirk. It’s not difficult—I just pretend we’re talking about my dick.
“Are you?”
He raises one eyebrow (damn, I wish I could do that!) and his lips curve into a calculating smile. “Fair enough. Looks like you’re not such a good little Boy Scout after all, huh?”
Of course, while I’m certain he’s got a gun, I’m only letting him believe I do so he’s (hopefully) less inclined to get trigger happy. Though I guess you could say I am “packing” a team of DEA agents. I just happen to be packing them remotely, via the little microphone clipped to the collar of my shirt, the one recording everything and letting the Feds listen in from a few miles down the road.
“Well … show me the money,” he says like he’s a scrawny white Cuba Gooding Jr. then laughs at his own cleverness. Inside, my eyes are rolling, but outwardly I keep my face blank. I’m shouldering a duffle bag full of neatly wrapped bricks of cash (it’s surprisingly heavy). I throw the bag in Eli’s direction and watch as he crouches down and zips it open. The sight of all those Benjamin’s reminds me I’m definitely taking a risk here because that’s really my money. The DEA couldn’t get their hands on this much cash so quickly—paperwork or approvals or some bullshit. Luckily, I’m a rich motherfucker who doesn’t actually care all that much about his money. Certainly not more than Mackenzie.
“Why do you need all of this?” I ask as casually as possible. “There’s no shortage of junkies these days. I can’t imagine you’re hurting for cash.”
He looks a little smug. Go ahead, asshole, brag away, you know you want to. Write your own reservation for Hotel Super Max. I hope they give him a year for every word.
I bet right now he’s feeling like a big man since we’re on his turf. This abandoned office building is far enough from the road that he obviously feels satisfied we won’t be interrupted—even though he chose to meet out here in the open rather than going inside.
Good. I want him to feel safe. I want him to get too confident, because that’s when he’ll run his mouth and tell all the viewers at home how awesome he is at being a criminal.
“Business is good,” he agrees. “My brother always thought small. Me? I’m looking to diversify my interests.”
The punk thinks he’s some kind of entrepreneur now? Someone must have been listening to a Business for Dummies podcast. Of course, I can’t say this, no matter how much I want to. Keep him talking!
“So, what? Selling to bored housewives?”
He makes a little condescending noise.
“Oh, I already got a kid with a pretty face selling to all the suburban pill poppers. Those cougars love him. I’ve already expanded that shit beyond what Curtis could have imagined, but I’m talking bigger.”
“But doesn’t that kind of grows his legacy more?”
Yeah, his brother is a soft spot, and I’m going to poke that shit until he cracks.
“No one even remembers his name—it’s my legacy I’m building,” he spits.
“I don’t know, you’re here, aren’t you? Seems to me you’re still doing Curtis’ dirty work.”
His face reddens in rage. Crack.
“Curtis doesn’t pull my strings anymore—no one does! I’m here with you because of loyalty to my family, and to make sure no one thinks they can get away with talking to the cops. But I’m in charge, you got that?” He’s standing now, unable to contain his agitation. “Curtis has shit for brains. He’d still be wasting his time moving product to bored little rich boys like you. No way he could pull off the operation I’ve got—boys and clients in four states, who know how to push the most expensive and addictive stuff to maximize our revenue.”
Now that he’s calmed down, I can tell he’s starting to get pissed at himself for revealing so much. But I need to keep him talking. I shift my expression to one of surprised admiration and curiosity. I’ll stroke his ego, even though stroking anything of his makes me want to take a shower.
“You shoulda gone to Harvard, man.” I’m mostly being honest. I mean, this kid can’t be more than nineteen, but he’s running a legit criminal organization and managing to cover his tracks so well he stumped the DEA. He’s got to be crazy smart—it’s a pity those brains weren’t put toward something better.
As I’d hoped, his chest puffs up a little at the compliment and the recognition that he’s smarter than me.
“And waste all that time in a classroom? Nah, I’m about to make money those pansy-ass Harvard kids won’t even dream of until they’re forty. They’ll never have half my business chops, anyway. I’m on the trends the way Curtis never was. Years back ice may have been the big thing, but these days dirty doctors—and I’ve already got some in my pocket—are where the real cash potential is. But that’s only the beginning. I’ve invested in real estate by the docks, got a sweet little setup down there where we’re producing our own shit—owning more parts of the distribution process, you know.”
Apparently pleased with himself, he squats back to the ground to examine the cash.
“You understand this means we’re square,” I say gruffly. “I don’t want to ever see you again or hear that you’re sniffing around my girl.” I want him to confess to the blackmail and to hurting Mackenzie.
“Are you saying you think I’m a man who would go back on my word?” I think that’s precisely what he is, actually, but all I do is shrug. I’d rather not piss him off too much because, well, the dude wants to kill me and I don’t particularly want to give him any more reason to do that.
“I only count twenty-five thousand here,” he says after a minute. Took him long enough to figure that one out.
“That’s right. An associate of mine will get the other half to you later tonight, as long as I get home alive.”
I think this is pretty clever. It’s a little obstacle to keep him from killing me before backup arrives, along with the thick protective vest I’m wearing under my shirt; I’m glad to have it, eve
n though the thick layers are brutal in this heat. I just hope the DEA folks won’t mind when I return this thing soaked in my sweat.
Eli’s icy blue eyes narrow as he stands back up, glaring at me.
“That’s not how this works.”
“You do this a lot?” Give me more. I think we’ve already got some incriminating stuff on tape, but I have to be sure.
“Enough,” he answers vaguely.
“What, you don’t think I’ll come through with the rest of it? You think I’m not a man who keeps my word?” I echo his earlier statement.
“I think you care enough about that pretty little redhead to follow through. And I know you’ve got the money.”
My hackles rise at his mention of Mackenzie.
“You’re lucky I’m playing nice after what you did to my girl,” I growl.
I’d love to wipe this pavement with his skinny ass for what he did to her, and I have to swallow down the surge of anger.
“Yeah, our shit ends tonight,” Eli says. His words have an ominous ambiguity to them, and I hope the DEA guys can hear it too. I’d say now seems like a good time for them to show up.
“Okay.” My voice sounds a little nervous for the first time, but I can’t help it with the way those pale blue eyes are staring me down. It lasts far too long, then he finally nods once decisively. Suddenly, he’s pointing a gun at me. Shit.
“I’d rather kill you than get the other twenty-five K,” he says calmly. So he was just weighing his options, and I’m on the losing end. Fuck. The gun clicks as he cocks the trigger. “Guns aren’t my personal preference, but I’m making an exception for you. Right now, I just want you dead quick. I brought you to my playground. Now you get to join the other losers I’ve buried here.”
I’m frozen in place, unsure whether to run so I’m a moving target or try to keep him talking until the Feds get here.
“What, you thought I’d let you walk away alive?” He smiles wide, showing all of his meth-ravaged teeth, and then his arm tenses in preparation to shoot.
I spin on my heel and run, ducking and weaving, trying to get to the side of the building so I can turn the corner and put a wall between us. There’s a crack—as loud as I remember it—and there’s a sudden sharp pain on the back of my thigh. I force myself to continue moving even though it hurts like hell. My pant leg clings to my skin as blood quickly saturates it. Wetness soaks through the fabric almost immediately.
Come on, Feds, where are you?
On my next step, my injured leg refuses to hold my weight, and I fall to the ground. When I roll onto my back, I find Eli standing right there, staring down at me.
Don’t look, Dad. Go back to football. I’m sorry.
He grins brightly as he aims the gun toward my heart and fires. The impact knocks the wind out of me. Holyfuckingshit that hurts. Then Eli disappears from my line of sight. Movement draws my attention to the side, where I see he’s been tackled to the ground by a DEA agent. More armed guys in all black surround us.
Finally.
“You all right, Wyatt?” one of them asks. His dark clad figure looms over me from the same spot Eli just vacated.
“I think so. Bullet in the leg,” I tell him as I try to suck in breath. Thank God for the bulletproof vest, because no doubt that second shot would have killed me. They don’t tell you how much it still hurts when you’re shot with one of these things on; my entire torso feels like a massive bruise, and every breath hurts like a motherfucker.
I hear the agent call for a medic. I can still see him clearly, but he sounds far away. Almost instantly, there’s someone crouched down beside me. Fingers touch my wrist and then something is being wrapped tightly around my leg. It hurts, but my chest hurts more. That doesn’t make sense. Am I a pansy who can’t handle getting hit through a vest? I’m also cold, which is weird, because I was overheated moments ago.
“He’s lost a lot of blood. Stay with me, Wyatt.”
Again, the voice seems to be coming through a tunnel, but I think it’s female. I can’t confirm—I closed my eyes at some point, but I don’t remember doing it.
“Is that a bullet hole in his vest? Check on his ribs as soon as you get him in the van.”
I’m lifted up then they’re carrying me. Every small motion of whatever I’m lying on is torture. Inside my chest, my heart seems to be competing for a spot in the Olympics. I’d like it to slow down. It’s hogging all the mojo from my lungs, which are screaming in pain and refusing to do their job. Every breath creates a sharp stabbing sensation on my left side. But those breaths are becoming less and less effective because I can’t seem to get enough air. I can’t get enough air! Something’s wrong.
“Can’t … breathe …” I croak, voice so faint I’m not sure if anyone will hear me.
“Someone help me get this vest off him.”
Everything goes fuzzy, fading in and out, the pain my only constant.
“He’s turning blue. Grab me that oxygen mask!”
Well, fuck, I’m dying.
And then I’m not aware of anything.
41. WAKE UP FOR ME
Mackenzie
I jolt awake at the sound of a crash somewhere in the house. I can’t believe I fell asleep! Before I can run out to see what’s going on, my mom appears at the bedroom door.
“Get dressed, honey.” Her face looks solemn.
“What’s happening?” My heart is beating in my throat as the fear tries to take over all of my senses.
“Daddy’s on the phone with Chief Duluth. Graham was injured, and they’ve taken him to the hospital. We’re going there now.”
I grab shoes, not even bothering to check my appearance in a mirror, even though I must be a mess after crying and falling asleep in my clothes.
“Goddammit!”
The muted shout reaches us from the other side of the house, and I gulp down a bubble of panic. My whole life Dad has seemed unflappable, steady, the one you can always count on to be calm in a crisis. If he’s this upset …
Don’t you dare die on me, Graham Wyatt.
* * *
Graham is in surgery when we arrive at Massachusetts General. The lady at the front desk won’t tell us anything else, insisting that the hospital can only share details with family.
I am his fucking family. I’m all he’s got—along with Griff and Marisa, who are both on the way, and Shaina, who had to stay home with the kids. We are his family.
“I’m his fiancée!” I blurt out, pushing in closer to the reception window with renewed determination to get past this bridge troll. She eyes me then holds out an imperious finger signaling for me to wait while she answers the phone.
Mom is right by my side and now she shifts closer, hand reaching out to clasp mine. I gratefully take it and squeeze to absorb her offered comfort. When I do, something cool and metal presses against my skin. Slowly pulling away, I glance down to find my mom’s engagement ring laying in the center of my palm. I slip it onto my finger while new tears fill my eyes. I can’t seem to find any words at the moment, but the look on her face tells me that the gratitude and love I’m feeling for her is shining out of mine.
The lady ends her phone call and turns back to me.
#LifeHack: Need to get past a power-hungry bridge troll? Wave something shiny in her face.
Shortly after, someone comes out holding Graham’s file. She’s much friendlier than the other lady as she gestures me to the side so we can speak privately. I hold my breath as she starts talking.
Graham sustained a gunshot wound to the thigh and one to the chest that was impeded by his protective Kevlar. Relief surges through me. That doesn’t seem too bad, right? But why is he in surgery? Her next words decimate my momentary optimism.
The surgeons are operating on him to remove the bullet from his thigh. They’re also treating him for a collapsed lung, which resulted from the close impact shot to his vest that also broke multiple ribs. He lost a lot of blood and went into shock on the way to the hospital, so th
ey’re also keeping an eye on his blood pressure and oxygen levels.
What’s the point of a bulletproof vest if it can’t keep him safe?! Some rational part of me recognizes that his condition would be much worse if he’d taken a bullet straight to the chest, but it’s a small comfort in this moment. I want to rage. I want to go find some of those fancy DEA guys and give them a piece of my mind for putting him in this situation.
I manage to remain as calm as possible, but I’m helpless to hold back the tears that begin silently streaming down my face.
There’s nothing for us to do now but wait. Again.
