“I’m reality catching up with you, Miss Portland.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Jase demands, still struggling with the four guys who have a grip on him. They can’t get the cuffs on him, and I suppress a snicker when I see his elbow catch one of the dudes square in the face.
The bitch in front of me throws a look of derision at Jase before turning back to me.
“Juliette Portland. You are under arrest for the murders of Chad Ross, Maximilian Ross, Anthony Ross, Michael Ross and Jared Ross.”
As she continues to Mirandize me the room starts to spin.
This can’t be real. It’s got to be a fucking joke.
“…to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used in a court of law.”
“This is bullshit,” Jase yells, but I’m frozen. Holy fuck. After everything that’s happened, is this the way it all ends? With us rotting in matching prison cells?
The bitch continues, “You have the right to consult an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”
Jase roars, some superhuman strength apparently overtaking him, suddenly free and throwing punches. He doesn’t seem to care that there are at least a dozen high-powered assault rifles leveled at the both of us, or that we are grossly outnumbered.
The bitch doesn’t stop talking, though. She just raises her voice over the muffled groans as Jase is tackled to the ground with the help of a Taser.
“Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you,” she finishes with a smirk, “are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?”
“Go fuck yourself,” I spit.
She laughs. “Thought so.”
“Wait,” I protest. “What’s he under arrest for?” I nod my head towards Jase.
The woman laughs. “Collateral damage.”
“Whaa—” I begin, for once genuinely lost for words. “You can’t do that! It’s—it’s against the law.”
She shrugs, her eyes narrowing dangerously. She flicks a glance toward the officer sporting a bloody nose thanks to Jase’s well-timed elbow to the face. “Fine. Jason Ross, you’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer.”
It’s a complete fucking farce.
“You’re arresting the wrong people,” I scream, struggling now.
She’s completely unfazed by me. “Let’s go,” she says to her team, and we begin to move with a pace that suggests someone is waiting for us.
Oh, god. Why are they arresting us? Who told them we were here?
“You’re probably not even a real fucking CIA agent,” I spit. “Who are you?”
As they drag us outside and shove us both into separate black Escalade’s with tinting so dark it’s almost as black as the paint, I am screaming inside.
Because if they charge me with those murders and they stick?
I am never going to see the light of day again.
I’m stuffed into Boss Bitch’s car, a token meathead cop in the back seat with me. Not that I even need guarding. I’m cuffed and trapped. Fucking fabulous.
But as Boss Bitch slides into the front passenger seat and fastens her safety belt, her shirtsleeve hitches up to reveal something. A small tattoo, two words that make my heart pound painfully fast. Il Sangue.
“You’re working for the fucking Cartel?” I scream.
She turns and flashes me a dazzling smile, all white teeth and full cheeks, and my heart sinks.
“Of course not,” she says, all shiny teeth and fuck you grin. “We’re the Central Intelligence Agency, darling. They work for us.”
***