Which brings me to where I’m taking Lacey. Where I plan on leaving her while I pursue this undeniably nutso plan. As night begins to fall, Lacey doesn’t even bat an eyelash when we pull into Dana Point, at least an hour from our destination to the northeast. She knows the compound is in the desert, so she also has to know that this is not the direction we need to be heading in to find Zeth. I can barely remember the route to the quaint three-bedroom ranch-style house, painted a dusky orange, set back from the oceanfront—in my defense, I’ve only visited here three or four times. With my degree and then my internship and residency, I haven’t had much time for visiting. I pull into the driveway, silencing the engine, still waiting for Lacey to realize that we’re not where we’re supposed to be. She just sits on the back seat, comfortably staring out of the window even though we’re now stationary, not even blinking.
I get out of the car, wondering what she’ll do. She follows after me without a word, bringing with her the small bundle of clothes I bought for her from Wal-Mart. “You alright, Lace?” I ask carefully. She just looks at me, a mild look of surprise on her face.
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
I can think of a thousand reasons, the most recent being the fact that she may have killed a man yesterday with a sizeable lump of sandstone. I keep my mouth shut, though. Instead, I walk up the path to the pale orange house and knock carefully on the front door. Flushes of nervous energy roll through me like waves. God knows how this is all going to play out. If I’m lucky, it’ll go well. If not, I’ll be searching for somewhere else to leave Zeth’s sister. Lacey joins me, giving me a pleasant smile. The front door opens and the eyes of the tall, thin man on the other side flash with sudden surprise and then happiness. He looks older than the last time I saw him. Tired.
“Sloane!” His smile grows, like he’s experiencing some quiet joy at the simple act of witnessing my disheveled state on his doorstep. I give him a weak smile in return.
“Hey.” I take a deep breath. “Hey, Dad.”
******
My burner’s going nuts in my pocket. There are only five people who have that number, so I know it’s fucking important. But can I answer it? No, I fucking can’t answer it because I’m stuck in a compound filled with angry, suspicious Mexicans who look like they’re really itching to beat the living shit out of me. I’m not an idiot. I know I’m an arrogant son of a bitch, but there’s a reason for my gigantic ego: I’ve fucking earned it. I’m not just a violent person. I am a trained violent person, and when I feel the need I can successfully hurt an awful lot of people in a very short space of time, and in many different ways. But even I know I’m not in a position to do that now. Three reasons: Number one, there are over fifteen guys with guns milling around the compound right now. Number two, those guns aren’t just guns. They’re semi-autos. And number three, I’m fucking wasted.
When Julio said he wanted to have a few beers in the sunshine, he probably should have said he wanted to drink a case of beer in the sunshine, alongside three bottles of Cuban rum, and carry on drinking until the sun went down and neither of us could stand up straight. My only reprieve is the fact that Julio is as shitfaced as I am and the sweating bastard didn’t end up calling the girls out. No way he could get his dick hard with this much Havana running through his veins. I probably could if I tried really hard, but fucked if I want to. All I can think about right now is Sloane. And also how much I want to kill motherfucking Callum for not watching the house like I told him to.
Occasionally Michael’s awkward predicament crops up through the fog of my mind, but I know the guy. He can take a beating when he needs to, sometimes even enjoys one; but that’s a different story. By the time I figure out where they’re keeping him in the morning he may have a few broken ribs and a couple of black eyes, but Julio won’t allow his men to do too much damage. Not right away. They’ll wanna get information out of him first, and it’ll take a while for them to realize the stubborn bastard won’t give it. Suffice it to say I’ll owe him a serious pay raise after this.
“You and me, we—we are fucking dogs, right?” Julio hiccups. It takes a lot of effort to swivel my eyes toward the great lump of a man, half reclined, half slumped on his lounger.
“Speak for yourself, man,” I growl.
This makes him laugh. “You fucking are. And I am, too! There’s…there’s nothing wrong with knowing what you are. You were born as shit, and so was I. But just because…” He pauses, pressing his balled-up fist into his sternum. He waits a minute, eyes watering, and then carries on. “Just because we were born as shit doesn’t mean we still live that way. We’re piranhas swimming amongst the other fish, looking like other fish until we’re provoked. And then we’re the nastiest fucking fish imaginable. We’re the kings of fish! Fucking dog king fish!”
I pull a grimace at that. “I’m not a piranha. I’m a great white.”
“Whatever, man. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You seen those bastards strip—” Another bout of heart burn. “You seen those bastards strip flesh from the bone? They’re fascinating. A nightmare.”
I sling back another shot of Havana, wincing. “Piranhas live in shoals. They’re group…fish. Great whites are the badasses of the sea. Don’t catch them hanging around in groups. They’re like…lone wolves.”