Collateral(8)

I suppose I’d better call her mom. Ridiculous. Who the fuck am I? Michael aims a look at me that says he’s thinking the exact same thing. Rebel chuckles down the phone. “If you want, man. Just whatever you do, don’t fucking blow this for me.”

“I could give a shit about you, motherfucker,” I snap. “You’re walking a fine line right now. You’re off on some mission to save some girl when you’re married to Alexis? You think Sloane isn’t one hundred percent pissed about that? Why don’t you just—”

I stop dead. Rebel says something on the other end of the line, but I’m not paying attention. My eyes are fixed solely on the newspaper that’s still folded in half and sitting on the table between Michael and me.

My mind can’t comprehend what it’s seeing—a black symbol, a block of solid ink in amongst the scrawl of thousands of words marking the broadsheet. The simple fleur-de-lis might not draw the attention of many people in this city, but a certain demographic react appropriately when they witness it in print. Or tagged on the side of a building. Or tattooed into someone’s skin, like it has been tattooed into mine.

Fucking Charlie.

I snatch the paper up and open it out, and sure enough, it’s him. Blatant motherfucking bastard.





THE DUCHESS

Beloved partner and mother.

Your loss is too much to bear.

Departed this world Friday morning peacefully in her sleep.

Funeral to be held at St. Finnegan’s Catholic Church

Sunday October 19 at 11 a.m.

Wake to follow at Hunt’s Point.

Your attendance is invited and most welcome.





I glance to the top of the page—the obit section. So that’s it then; the Duchess is dead. My stomach cramps at this new information. I knew it was coming, but still…the woman did care about me once, and I cared about her in my own way. I toss the paper down, shoving an accusing finger at the fleur-de-lis Charlie uses as his personal family crest. Michael frowns at the paper, sees what I’m pointing at, and his face clouds over.

“Hey? Hey, are you listening? Zeth!” My cell phone is shouting at me. Or rather, Rebel’s shouting at me out of the speaker.

“What?”

“Don’t worry about Sloane. I’ll find her, okay?”

“Rebel, I wouldn’t trust you to find my girl if you were the last fucking man alive.” I hang up the phone. I don’t want to hear another word come out of his mouth.

I keep forgetting Michael is this asshole’s cousin. He curves an eyebrow at me, his mouth lifting in the corners. “Not a fan, huh?”

“Not particularly. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. He’s an acquired taste.” Michael huffs out a breath, running his hands down the front of his suit jacket. “Okay, so what’s the plan? Are you about to go throw yourself on the mercy of this DEA agent or what? Sloane said not to.”

I stand, shooting him a filthy look. “It’s rude to pretend you’re asleep when people are having a private conversation.”

“No, it’s not. Having a full-blown make-out session when someone’s trapped in the back of the same car as you? That’s rude.”

I bite back the urge to growl. We leave Fresco’s, but not before Michael returns his macchiato glass to the barista and informs him that his coffee is bad. Really, really fucking bad. The barista looks like he’s just shit his pants.

When we’re outside, the city is unusually still, as though it’s holding its breath, awaiting an approaching storm. In some ways it might as well be. Somewhere out there, Sloane’s potentially being interrogated, held against her will. That does not sit well with me. If I don’t have her back within the next hour, Seattle will be hit by the biggest storm it’s ever seen. And that storm will be me. Michael hands over the keys to Rebel’s Humvee without needing to be asked.

He climbs into the passenger seat, putting on my aviators. “What are we doing?”

“We, my friend, are going to find ourselves some goddamn collateral.”

Michael pats the dashboard, grinning. “Sounds like a plan.”

“And Michael?”

“Yes?”

“Once Sloane’s back where she’s supposed to be…I’m gonna need to borrow a suit.”





The last time I saw Dad’s wood-paneled station wagon, it was in the rearview mirror of a getaway car. I never thought we’d be able to retrieve it from Julio’s compound, and yet here I am, sitting in the front passenger seat, listening to the damn thing’s all-too-familiar choking and grinding as we head out of the city.

“So, where do you think we ought to start?” Dad asks, hands firmly at ten and two on the steering wheel.