There are only a few rules I live by. I can count them on one hand. First: if you’re going to kill a man, make sure he’s definitely dead before you dispose of the body. Second: Always check every room for a potential threat when you enter an empty house. Third: If something seems too good to be true, it definitely fucking is. Lastly, fourth: never snitch on someone, no matter how fucking terrible they are. Ever.
It was never an option to hand Charlie Holsan over to the police. It was never a consideration that I might be able to hand him over to Seattle’s boys in blue and let them do their jobs. They might have prosecuted him, finally bringing him to justice for all of the terrible atrocities he committed throughout his life, putting him away forever. Holsan could have spent every last breath he took locked behind bars, his freedom taken away until he finally died in his prison issue cot, his bones aching, crippled with arthritis, but I couldn’t have given them the information they needed to make it happen. Fuck no. It’s just not how things are done.
Mason Reeves remains still as I drive through the night. I had to come clean when Sloane called and told me what she’d overheard. I had to pick him up and figure this shit out once and for all. Typical that Mason would end up in St. Peter’s, and typical that it would have to be my girlfriend that treated his sister. The world is just too fucking small sometimes. Sloane was not happy with me at all for keeping Lowell’s presence a secret, not happy at all, but she was far more concerned over what I had planned for the guy. She could hear the cold violence in my voice, no doubt. She knew all too well what that meant, and she didn’t like it. Took forever to convince her to leave the hospital and go home, to get some sleep and wait for me there, but she’d finally agreed. And now, here I am driving Mason across the city toward the warehouse, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to deal with this situation. I gave up killing people, yes, but shit. I also swore I’ll do anything I have to in order to make sure Sloane is safe, no matter fucking what, and let’s face it: I’m still so fucking mad at him. I’m so mad I could quite easily lose control and snap his neck.
Mason watches with alert eyes as we head across the city, moving toward the water and the docklands. I’ve had grown ass men in the same position as Mason, zip tied and thrown into the trunk of this Camaro, crying their fucking eyes out, and yet the kid just climbed in and hasn’t made a peep since. There’s something to be said about that.
When we reach the warehouse, Michael’s standing in the open doorway, a rectangle of bright light blaring out into the darkness behind him. The deep navy blue suit he’s wearing is immaculate as ever. I swear the guy’s wardrobe must be worth thousands and thousands of dollars. He opens up Mason’s door for him and stands back so he can get out.
“Hey, man,” Mason says.
Michael smiles at him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Better come inside, huh?” He sounds a little sad—bastard’s supposed to be on my side, not feeling sorry for the guy who’s been feeding information to the woman hell-bent on destroying our lives. I shoot him a dark look, and Michael just shrugs. He’s not sorry in the slightest. Some right hand man he’s gonna be tonight. I follow them inside the warehouse, pulling the heavy sliding door back into place behind us and locking it shut, and then I make my way into the living room, where I find Sloane sitting on the couch with her hands knotted together, her face as white as a sheet.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I growl. “What happened to waiting at home, getting some sleep?” I spin on Michael, ready to punch the traitor in the head. “And you? What the fuck were you thinking, letting her come here?”
Michael arches an eyebrow at me, sighing. “You know your girlfriend better than anyone else, man. If you think there was any element of ‘allowing’ her to do something here, then you’re giving me far too much credit.”
“You should have picked her the fuck up and forced her to go home,” I snarl.
“I threatened it. Then Sloane helpfully pointed out what you’d do to me if I laid hands on her, and I decided to leave her to her own devices.”
I have nothing to say to that. Fair enough, I would have torn him limb from limb if Sloane had been manhandled in any way. Still, though. Fucking unbelievable that he’d just let her waltz in and make herself comfortable on the couch, knowing what’s about to happen to this kid.
“You can’t be mad at Michael,” Sloane says. Her voice is cool, filled with ice water. She’s pissed at me—I can see it in her eyes. I don’t need to hear her say the words, but still she says them anyway. “You should never have kept me in the dark on this. I should have known about Lowell from the start.”