He didn’t come in here much anymore. “Ricky.”
“Yeah?” He didn’t look away from the screen.
“I got a job for you.”
That got his little brother’s attention. He turned around, wariness written all over his face. “What kind of job?”
It was like pulling teeth. “The kind where I give you orders and you obey them. Unless you already forgot how the other day played out?”
“No, no. I was just asking. Jesus, James, I was just fucking with you.”
No, he wasn’t. He was pushing, testing boundaries, looking for weakness. Was this what parenting was like? James almost laughed at the thought. It might be similar, but he doubted most kids were willing to do actual violence to their parents during their rebellious teenage years. Ricky was. James waited for his brother to drop his gaze before he spoke again. “The shipment that comes in two days from now needs an escort over to Northern California. You’ll take two men and make sure it gets there without a problem.”
Ricky’s mouth tightened, but he gave a jerky nod. “Sure thing.”
He didn’t believe the obedient act for a second, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He couldn’t punish his brother for having a shitty attitude, or because he suspected Ricky was up to no good. His men would think he was crazier than his old man, and it would only be a matter of time before they put him in the ground. Getting him out of town for a week or so is exactly what both of us need right now.
“Have you gone to see him?”
James stopped but he didn’t turn to face his brother. There was no need to ask who Ricky was talking about—their old man. “No.” Not since that first time. He’d shown up at the jail, needing some sort of reassurance that he was doing the right thing as he stepped into the role thrust upon him. Victor had turned James away, leaving the message that he was a disappointment and always had been. Bitterness clawed up his throat, as familiar as the back of his hand. He’d never lived up to his old man’s exacting standards, and he’d never stopped trying, either. Now he was doing things his own way.
And making one hell of a mess of it.
His phone buzzed, saving him from the conversation. He dug it from his pocket, and his breath whooshed out at the sight of Carrigan’s name. She’d called. He thumbed it on as he walked out of the room. “It’s good to hear from you.”
“James.” Her voice was so broken, so unlike her, that he froze. “James, I need you. Now.”
He didn’t stop to think or question. He grabbed his jacket and keys from the rack by the door and hit the sidewalk at a run. “I’m on my way. Tell me where.” This was different from the last time she’d called him. She’d been upset then. But this sounded so much worse. “Did someone hurt you?”
She laughed, a jagged wet sound. “Not how you mean.” She rattled off an address.
He did some quick mental calculations. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.” He’d have to break a few traffic laws to pull it off, but he’d manage.
“Okay…thank you.”
“Hang in there, lovely. I’m coming.” He slid into the driver’s seat of a black Beemer that he kept for times when he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, and dropped his phone next to him so if she called again, he wouldn’t miss it. Then he floored it.
He made the trip in ten minutes. The address was a little coffee shop in Mission Hill. James pulled up outside, but there was nothing that he could see to raise any red flags. Since Carrigan didn’t fly out the door and throw herself into his car, he parked and walked inside. The street was technically O’Malley territory, but since it bordered the southwestern outskirts of where they did business, it didn’t get the kind of attention it would if it were on the boundary bumping up again Sheridan or Halloran space. That didn’t mean he went in relaxed, though. Something was wrong with Carrigan—seriously wrong.
It could be a trap.
Didn’t matter. She needed him and so he was here. He’d promised her he would be, and nothing that had happened between them had changed that fact. A quick survey of the place found it empty except for a two-person table in the back corner where Carrigan sat hunched over, her hands cupped around a giant mug. He dropped into the seat across from her, categorizing everything he saw. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and her hands shook on the mug, but she looked okay. He knew better than most that it didn’t mean she was actually okay, though. “What happened?”
She started, as if she’d been so lost in thought, she hadn’t realized he was there. Her green eyes were full of shadows. “Do you know Dmitri Romanov?”