Something feels off. Maybe it's just because it's the middle of the night and I'm a firm believer that good things don't happen at three a.m. It just feels like there's something horribly wrong, and I can't put my finger on it. Mindy and I were supposed to be the distraction, but then somebody pulled the fire alarm just as we were almost out of the emergency room door. That was when the feds starting grilling us about Jim's and Alex's injuries and, of course, the fire alarm. We knew nothing about that last thing, though, which is what was particularly curious for Detective Davis. I'm just hoping he isn't always this hungry for a case and is having an off day. Either way, we need to get out of New York and fast. We didn't come this far only to lose half our family to general lockup because this asshole wants to make it big in his department.
"Okay, boys, fun's over," a woman says as she quickly approaches from around the corner of the building. When she comes into view, the first thing I see is her striking red hair. She's average in every other way, despite the expensive ass skirt and blazer she's wearing. In one hand, she carries a leather briefcase, and in the other, a coffee. Her eyes lock with mine. "I'm Kimberly George with Harrison and Hart. I represent the Forsaken Motorcycle Club. Unless you're planning on arresting either or both of these women, please remove the handcuffs immediately."
Davis guffaws, stumbling all over himself while the agents gripe but do as Ms. George says. I don't know where she came from or who called her, but I'm damn grateful they did. Within minutes, the officers and the feds find their way off hospital property, and Mindy and I are left with our mysterious attorney. A quick conversation about how Gloria hired her on our behalf ensues, and then we go our separate ways. My phone's buzzed in my pocket no less than half a dozen times already. By the time I get to Jim's messages, Mindy's already on the phone with Ian. She snaps her fingers at me and points to the parking garage, then takes off running. I have no choice but to follow.
She stops, finally, and turns to me. In less than a minute, she lays it all out for me. Including the part where Jim followed Ryan out of the hospital in a mad dash. Horrified, I check my phone again. This time, I listen to Jim's voice messages. They're not much more than five or six words each, all spoken in code, confirming exactly what Mindy's just told me. At this point, I'm going through the motions, trying not to think about it. Not about the implications of being handcuffed and questioned by not only the police but the feds as well. Not about the fact that my husband, who's just barely started to recover from a gnarly stab wound, is off chasing my son down before he gets himself killed.
And I'm definitely not thinking about the ashen look on Ian's face as he pulls the van up and Michael and Alex open the back for us to hop in. Or the way my boy speeds like a maniac through the streets of Brooklyn even though we all know local law enforcement has it out for us. I don't even respond when Mindy tries to ask me if I'm okay. I just can't bring myself to do or say anything.
My hands grip the bench beneath me as we take each turn faster and faster than the last. Ian isn't one to be rattled. He's my steady one. And yet here he is, freaking out. A heaviness settles over me as I prepare myself for the worst. I guess I didn't let myself feel it earlier. I just kind of told myself that we would come out here, take care of business, and then head home. I thought it'd be easy--well, easier--and that would be it. We'd be done. I'd never have to see Brooklyn again, and my worst memories would still be from the day I lost my twins. But that's not my life. My life is content for a warning label about poor choices.
The familiar rumble of motorcycles--not just a few, but many--grows behind us. I tense up, looking around frantically at my surroundings. It's the guys. Because of course it is. I don't know why I started panicking.
"Mom," Alex says quietly from beside me. "Are you okay?" Her brown eyes are filled with worry and a sadness that I wish I could replace with something less daunting. Behind her, Michael's expression is near identical.
"I'm worried about Ryan," I admit. Ever since I met the boy, he's been going off and doing stupid shit like this. But it was different when the stakes weren't so high. He's no longer getting into fights on the playground and ditching class or even antagonizing the Fort Bragg PD. This time, he's trying to take on what's left of the detractors of the Mancuso crime family. I of all people know that those people don't fuck around.
"We're a block out," Ian shouts from the driver's seat. Blinking away my climbing fear, I move into action and put on my bulletproof vest as does everybody else. Somehow Ian manages to get his on without losing control of the van.
"Jim doesn't have a weapon," I say immediately upon the realization that he left empty-handed. I don't even know if he had shoes or pants even. The last time I saw him, he was in a hospital gown, all hooked up to machines in bed. Maybe I'm slow to the issue, because nobody says anything for a long while. I'm worried about Jim's stitches more than anything, but my man is smart. He's not the one I fear for.
"A couple of the guns were missing when we got to the van," Michael says reassuringly. "Bet Pop grabbed 'em before hot-wiring his ride."