“Hopefully your president arrives soon. Ms. Mercer is a fighter, but one can only hold out so long with her injuries. She let me lay her down without much fight, but then her nerves got the best of her when I parted her legs. She was so tight, and slick, and needy. Have you not taken care of her properly?”
In an instant, I’ve grabbed my gun from the dirt and I’m on him. His backup moves just as quickly, and they both have their guns pointed at my head from less than five feet away. The barrel of my piece is but a few inches from pressing into his expensive suit. He doesn’t flinch or suck in a deep breath. His eyes widening slightly at my proximity is the only reaction he gives. He raises his hands in the air and motions for his guys to back off. It’s only now that I notice the guards are at my sides. They back up a few steps, but keep their focus and aim steady. We don’t speak, nor do we move an inch while we wait for Jim to arrive. I’ve shut myself down as much as I can, trying to feel nothing. I can’t have let it be this easy for her to get hurt.
Soon, the familiar rumble of Jim’s bike sounds. He gives us a wide berth as he pulls up beside me and cuts the engine. He’s totally silent as he hops off his Harley. Most of the time when I look at Jim Stone I don’t see the man he is now—aged and graying. He’s the age his father, Rage, was when he gave up the gavel. Rage didn’t immediately retire out to Nevada when he stepped down. He hung around for about six years before he couldn’t stand to look at Jim and Ruby together anymore. Once he lost Silvia, he lost himself.
“James Stone,” Asshole says. Jim gives him a short nod and places his hands on his hips.
“And you are?” Jim says. I wonder how long the fucking pleasantries are going to go on for before this asshole decides to tell me where Holly is.
“I am unimportant,” he says. “I have expressed to your friend here how incredibly important it is that I return to New York as soon as possible with both Alexandra and Michael, but so far he has been unreceptive to my requests.”
“And for good reason,” Jim says. “We made a long trip and have taken on a lot of heat to get Alex out of New York. Mancuso won’t be coming within five states of her.”
My phone rings in my pocket. I tuck my gun into the waistband of my jeans and step away from the crowd. The Caller I.D. tells me it’s Jeremy. “Yeah?”
“Sweets and Bean are MIA. I’ve checked their apartment, then Bean’s work, and then the high school. Nothing,” he says quickly. “I’m back at the apartment now. Their cars aren’t here, and there’s no lights on. You want me to break down the door?”
“Stay put.” I hang up the phone after giving the order and rejoin the group. When I return, Jim and Asshole have moved on from where they were. Now they’re discussing history.
“A company man like you should know that you’re not high enough on the totem pole to give a charter president orders,” Jim says.
“You don’t even know my name, let alone my rank, Mr. Stone. My place on the totem pole might surprise you,” the Italian says. The clock’s ticking. I don’t have time for them to whip ‘em out and measure their dicks.
“Pres, you’re looking at the asshole who Mancuso was going to marry Princess off to,” I say, pointing to the Italian. Then I point my finger to Jim and look at Asshole. “And you’re looking at the man who married Princess’s mom. Now that you got my president here, you can tell me where Holly is.”
“Princess’s mom?” Asshole asks. He looks from me to Jim with curious eyes.
“Holly Mercer!” I scream. I can feel it in my soul—I’m starting to crack. My senses are firing off like fireworks exploding in the night sky. Jim senses it. Asshole senses it. The douchebag Italians behind him sense it, and so do the guards. My fist shakes with the burning need to knock him the fuck out. Jim’s here now. It’s all he asked for in order to tell me where Holly is. He better make good on his word.
He has to.
“You have served your purpose, Ster—“. He places a finger over his lips to hush himself. “That’s right. You’re not a fan of your given name.” He’s playing with me.
“Now,” I yell. He smiles softly and nods.
“Very well. Now, pay attention, because I will not repeat myself. Thirty-nine, one, four, one, two, seven, four, sixty-eight. Negative one, two, and three. Eight hundred and ten, zero, and sixty-eight,” he rattles off so quickly I know I don’t catch it all. It’s not so much like he’s telling me a series of numbers as he’s playing a game with those numbers.
“That’s not a location,” I say.
“It is,” he insists. “And hurry—the degrees must be dropping by now, and it’s likely brackish.”
I look to Jim, who nods. I take off for my bike as quickly as I can. Once resting on the seat, I dial the only person I know who’s good enough with riddles to have even have a clue what all those numbers mean. Ian picks up on the first ring, to my immense relief.
“Knuck,” he says, using my nickname.