The Rising, page 7
part #1 of Unlawful Men Book 4 Series
She inhales, her lip trembling more, her eyes filling with new tears. “You didn’t let me down.”
“I let you down, Rose. I let us down. By getting drunk, by losing control, by getting angry and cutting myself. I let us down.” I lean in and take her face in my palms. “Never again.” I kiss her softly and stand as I do, and she rises with me, letting me apologize some more with my mouth.
“Let me clean you up,” she says, but I shake my head, refusing her, not wanting to burden her with the further pain of seeing the mess I’ve made of myself.
“No.” I pull away and wipe her eyes, my nose wrinkling as I lick my lips.
“What?” she asks.
“You taste spicy.” I can feel the heat of the chilies. Jesus, Brad wasn’t being dramatic at all.
“It could do with a little more of a kick.”
“More?” I laugh a little and bend, placing my lips on her tummy as she weaves her fingers through my hair. “Go,” I order, rising and turning her around. “Tell James I need him.”
“Brad won’t like it.”
“Brad doesn’t know what’s gone on between us.”
“And James does?” she asks.
“Did you tell Beau?”
“Yes.”
Of course she did. And I saw James’s face. His worry for me. “Then he knows.” I walk her to the door and look outside to see where Brad is and what he’s doing because Rose is right. He won’t like being in the dark. “He’s too busy dying from eating your curry to worry about what James and I are doing.” I see him still sucking back water.
A tap on her arse sends Rose on her way with Beau, and I turn to James, feeling his eyes on me. “Don’t say a word.”
“Wasn’t going to.” He refills the bowl with fresh water and antiseptic. And there’s why James and I get on so well. I go back to the chair and sit down, my back ramrod straight, making my chest as taut as possible, pushing the medical box toward him. “What the fuck are we going to do?”
“Oh, so you’re ready to discuss tactics now?” He grabs a chair and swings it around to face me, sitting down and swishing a wipe through the solution.
“Yes,” I grate. I’m perfectly aware I’ve either been too pissed or had my head up my arse the past twenty-four hours.
“We should get the others in first.”
“Fine,” I mumble, hissing as he wipes me up with a heavy hand. “Anyone ever tell you that your bedside manner is shit?” I ask, making him smile as he continues, ignoring the fact that I’m pushing myself into the back of the chair, trying in vain to shy away from the biting sting of the alcohol on my open wounds.
“You didn’t mess around, did you?”
I look down and immediately look away. “I’m a dick, I know.”
He hums, concentrating, but doesn’t agree. “What did you make of Lennox Benson?”
“Apart from the fact he obviously fancied my pregnant w—Ouch, you fucker!”
“Pussy,” he mutters. “Yes, apart from that.”
“Take it easy,” I grumble, looking down at his working hand. “What’s your point?”
“He’s a good-looking bloke.” James dumps the red-stained cloth in the bowl and rummages through the box.
My shoulders drop. “It wouldn’t have mattered if Lennox Benson looked like the back end of a bus. She did what she did because she’s a hateful bitch.”
“I assume you’re talking about your pregnant wife.”
“Could I be talking about yours?”
“She’s not my wife and she’s not pregnant.”
I smirk, and he eyes me, knowing I’m about to hit him with some sarcastic wisecrack. So the fucker jabs be in my chest. “Fuck!”
“You were saying?”
“I was saying,” I hiss, looking down at my wounds. “You’re a cunt.”
“Love you too. Are we sticking these cuts together or are you happy with scars wider than they need to be?”
“Whatever. They’ll still be quite pathetic compared to yours.” Another jab, and I cough over a laugh.
“Seriously,” James says. “We need to talk business.”
“Yeah, I know.” I relent, defeated. “So hurry the fuck up and glue me back together.” I glare at him. “Gently, okay?”
“Okay, sweetheart.” I continue to hiss in between holding my breath as he sorts me out. “I need to ask you something,” he says, not looking at me.
“Sounds ominous.”
“I spoke to Chaka earlier about the next shipment.”
“And?”
“Did you tell him Rose is pregnant?” He looks up at me, just as I recoil, which gives him his answer. Not that he really needed to ask. “So how does he know?”
“Good fucking question,” I muse, falling into thought. Trust no one. I’ve made a few exceptions recently, and one of those exceptions is currently sticking me back together. One of those exceptions is now a solid friend and wingman. I trust James with my life, and not many men have that privilege.
“All fixed,” he says, standing and taking the bowl to the sink. “Get a T-shirt on and I’ll clear up the mess before I get the men.”
I rise from the chair, the unfolding of my body pulling at the skin on my chest. I grit my teeth as I swipe up my T-shirt and grit harder as I pull it on over the bandages he’s done a neat job of fixing over the glued wounds. “Meet you in the study,” I say, wandering away, wondering why the fuck everything hurts so badly at the moment.
Because . . . Rose.
And how the fuck does Chaka, my arms supplier who’s based in a small settlement in the middle of nowhere in Africa, know my wife is pregnant?
I go to the couch in my office but think better of it. So I consider the chair behind my desk and grimace at the low level of the seat. Finally, I resolve myself to standing, resting my arse on the edge of the cabinet. I scan the various bottles of Scotch. I could do with a drink. For fuck’s sake.
When I hear the voices of the men, I remove my palm from my chest and try to lengthen my torso. “Motherfucker,” I breathe, folding again. I’ve proper done myself over this time. “Sit down,” I say as they all file in, each and every one of them giving me a suspicious or concerned look as they do. I know James won’t have murmured a word about the state of my chest and how it came to be mutilated, but I’m not foolish enough to believe that he needs to tell them. They saw Rose. They saw me.
I wait for everyone to get comfortable, noticing for the first time this evening, now the cloud of fury and remorse has thinned, that Goldie is wearing a suit. I frown at her, but she looks straight through me, her eyes telling me to get to business.
“Not joining us?” Brad asks, motioning to the empty chair behind my desk.
I ignore him and push myself off the wood, starting to wander the room as a collection of eyes follow me, waiting for where we might start. Truth be told, I haven’t got a fucking clue, and James must sense that because he clears his throat, redirecting all attention to him. “First things first,” he says. “Tom Hayley is running for mayor of Miami.”
I balk, as does everyone else in the room. “You’re kidding, right?” I splutter.
“Nope.”
“Fucking hell, I think I preferred Adams.” Tom Hayley? Jesus, the man is an egomaniac. And, worse, he hates James and me, so I can only see this going one way. A headache. And we can’t kill the fucker because . . . well, he’s Beau’s father. “Anything else that’ll excite me?” I ask.
I can tell by James’s face another bombshell is coming. “We need to change the delivery date of the next shipment to the Mexicans.”
“Why?” Brad asks, rather than informing James that it isn’t an option. Because James wouldn’t elect to change anything if it wasn’t necessary. You do not alter the terms of a giant arms delivery the day after half the payment is in your possession. It’s not good form, and it also provokes mistrust. The last thing we need is the Mexicans on our backs.
“The Coast Guard has an annual training day on the day Chaka was due to deliver. We need to push to the Monday.”
“Shit,” I breathe. “That’s the day the Mexicans want their haul.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Ringo mutters.
“Great,” Otto sighs. “So . . . who’s talking to the Mexicans?” he asks, pointing to the straws on the drinks cabinet.
“I am not drawing straws.” Brad laughs. “I’m about as good at drawing straws as Danny is at poker.” He gets up and pours two Scotches, bringing one to me. I accept, if only to avoid inciting worry, but I won’t be drinking it.
“I’ll talk to Luis,” I say, looking down at the tumbler in my grasp. “We’ll compensate him.”
“How?”
“A discount.”
“Even more?” Brad looks at my untouched drink, undoubtedly wondering why it remains untouched when I’m clearly in need of it.
“Any other suggestions?”
“So when’s the next lot of cash arriving at Hiatus to be cleaned?” he asks, giving me my answer. There is no other way. We need to sweeten the deal, even fucking more than it’s already been sweetened. “I need to tell Nolan.”
“I’ll talk to Luis. We’ll rearrange the exchange and I’ll let you know.” I set the glass down, glad to be rid of the weight. “Now—”
“I have more,” James says, pulling my attention his way. What the fuck else could have happened in the last twenty-four hours that I’ve missed? “An article was released online this morning.” He goes to his phone. “By Natalia Potter.”
“A journalist, I presume,” Ringo grunts as he holds his hand out, taking James’s phone. His lip curls more with each word he reads. “The fuck?” His wide eyes find James.
“Yes, the fuck,” James says quietly, making everyone in the room go to Ringo and huddle around, trying to find out what’s got his shocked attention. I don’t join them. One, because I can’t bend, and two, because I have a feeling I know what it’s about. “She details the story of two men.” James looks at me.
“Something tells me they’re not law-abiding citizens,” I muse, eyeing the Scotch. I know I can drink a good few glasses and not be affected. For fuck’s sake, I’ve been drinking the stuff since I was twelve. But for Rose? Self-control. “What does it say?”
“Exactly?” Ringo asks, and I narrow my eyes. “Okay, and I quote,” he goes on, returning his attention to his phone. “‘Notorious criminal Danny Black, widely known as The Brit, and the man dubbed The Enigma, who is rumored to have murdered Detective Jaz Hayley, are causing chaos in Miami, and it would appear the police and FBI are powerless to stop them.’” Ringo shifts uncomfortably. “End quote.”
“What about me?” Brad grunts, looking as indignant as fuck. “I don’t get a mention?”
“Shut up, you girl,” Goldie mutters, taking herself back to the other couch, her eyes on James. “You okay?” she asks him.
“Fine.” He’s thoughtful, his eyes on his feet. Thinking.
“The journalist’s source?” I ask.
“Anonymous.” James looks at me. “To everyone else.”
But to us, this is a plain poke from him. A way to smoke us out. Get us back in Miami. The police can’t touch either of us, we know that. He knows that. This is becoming more about ego than anything else. A game. James can prove he didn’t kill Beau’s mother, and if the police had anything on me, I’d already be caged. That article is The Bear’s way of telling us he’s in contact with Potter. “Find out where she is,” I say, but Otto is already on his phone. It prompts me to make a call myself.
“Agent Higham,” he says in answer, sounding somewhat cautious. I don’t know why he declared his name. Perhaps to remind me that he is, in fact, FBI.
“Higham,” I say, letting everyone else in the room know who I’m calling. “I’ll be back in Miami soon. We should catch up for a coffee.”
“An invite to your wedding and now coffee? Anyone would think you’re trying to get me in your pocket, Black.”
“You wouldn’t fit,” I retort, and he laughs. “There are a few things we need to discuss.”
“Rumor on the street is you’ve retired.”
I smile, looking at the others. All of them have a familiar thirst in their eyes. All except Goldie. She looks plain pissed off because she, more than any of us, wanted to walk away. And now she can’t. Or, more to the point, she refuses to. She won’t leave James’s side. So, yeah, she’s pissed. When I thought we’d ended The Bear, I didn’t walk away thinking we were done. I walked away knowing we weren’t. It’s like I said to James one time—if you set the bar, you defend it.
Or you die.
We’ve set the bar, and I’m damn determined to defend the fucker. The alternative isn’t an alternative. The bunker we built at the boatyard wasn’t a temporary solution. James can never walk away from The Enigma. I can never walk away from The Brit. With a reputation comes a responsibility—a responsibility to stay alive and keep your loved ones safe. You can’t turn your back on this life, and that’s a lesson James and I have both learned. We have to continue dealing if we want to stay alive. We need to keep control of Miami. The alternative won’t just be messy. It’ll be the end. That was fact before we found out The Bear’s still alive. The Russians are still out there, and that was enough to keep us in the game. Now? Now we finish a job that’s annoyingly dragging out. It’s simple. But complicated.
So rumors are circulating. Retired? If only it was as simple as hanging up my gun. My knife. Or my letter opener. “Rumors are usually just that,” I say, resting my weight on the cabinet again. There are going to be a lot of disappointed people if that’s the case, but more fool them for assuming. Nothing should be assumed in this world. “I’m sorry to disappoint.”
“I’m not disappointed, Danny.”
Oh, we’re on first name terms now, are we? Interesting. So is the fact he’s not disappointed. “That’s nice to hear, Harry.” I wander over to the chair behind my desk and lower into it gingerly, my curiousness superseding the discomfort. “I was about to offer my condolences.”
He laughs lightly. “For what?”
“I expect things are going to kick off in Miami very soon. Hear me when I say, I’m not the man you should be coming after. I’ll be in touch.” I hang up and look at Brad and James in turn. “Definitely not bent.”
“Definitely?” James asks.
“Okay, he’s not bent.” There’s nothing definite about our world. “What next?” I ask, my palm resting on my chest.
“Goldie wants to draw us an updated diagram with her ladylike, pretty, neat handwriting,” Ringo says, collecting a piece of paper and a pencil and handing it to her. She accepts but growls. And with the appearance of Goldie’s suit comes the appearance of Ringo’s teasing.
“We don’t need a diagram,” Brad says, intercepting and removing the tools from Goldie’s hand, at the same time giving Ringo a warning look. I’m not the only one treading carefully around our she-warrior. But Ringo is the only one who isn’t. Hasn’t he got the memo?
“Won’t everyone stop fucking looking at me like that?” Goldie barks, standing and pulling in her suit jacket, as if to remind everyone that she is, in fact, wearing a suit. Not a dress.
“See,” Ringo grunts, looking at us all like we’re stupid. “She doesn’t like it.” He walks over to Goldie, raises a fist, and jabs her in the bicep. And in return, she launches a punch that would take Wladimir Klitschko off his feet, sending Ringo flying across the office like a rag doll. He lands with a thud, holding his massive nose, that’s going to be even bigger now. Swollen. Probably a pair of black eyes too. “Fuck me,” he moans.
I turn my eyes from Ringo on the floor to Goldie, and I positively hate the glaze in her eyes. “Go,” I order, walking over to her, literally taking my life into my own hands by physically turning her away and walking her to the door.
“I’m fine,” she argues, rolling her shoulders to remove me. “Get the fuck off me, or I’ll—”
“What?” I get up in her face, not aggressively, but a clear sign that I’ll take no shit. She wants to be treated like the rest of the men? Fine. I’m here for it. “Control your urges or get the fuck out of this office.” I’m a fucking hypocrite, I know. “Clear?”
She nods once, and it’s sharp. “Clear.”
“Sit the fuck down.” I’m not angry. I’m not out of patience. I’m merely giving Goldie what she wants. What she needs. Equality. Validation. She resumes position on the couch as Ringo crawls up from the floor, feeling at his nose and checking his hand as he joins her, giving her a curled lip as he lowers to the seat.
Now, where were we? “There aren’t many animals left at the zoo,” I say, perching on the desk. “We’ll assume with the elimination of the Irish, the drugs arm of The Bear’s business has ceased.”
“For now,” James adds.
“For now.” There will be men coming up through the ranks, a mad scramble to fill the boots of Vince Roake. “We still don’t know where the Polish keep the women they’re shipping in.” Or, indeed, how they’re shipping them in.
“Assuming they’re not storing them in the vault at the bank Kenny Spittle managed.” Otto raises his brows.
“They’re women, not fairies, for fuck’s sake,” Brad mutters. “The drugs and guns are or were being kept at the bank. We have The Shark left batting for the Poles, and The Ox, Sandy, and Volodya winning for the Russians.”
Winning.
With the Russian’s heading up the guns side of this cozy little setup, they’re most certainly winning. We’ve failed to take out any of the fuckers at the top of that tree, and now that we know their puppet master isn’t dead? I blow out my cheeks and drag a hand down my face. They must have laughed their way to the bank. Kenny Spittle’s bank. I frown, looking at Otto. “There’s been no action at the bank?” I ask.
“Nothing. No one going in, no one coming out.”
“And Kenny Spittle?”
“He’s still in the container, although his scheduled annual leave is almost up. It won’t be long before colleagues at the bank start asking questions when he doesn’t return to work. Leon’s feeding and watering him daily.”
