“Yo.”
“Rollo? It’s Franklin.”
“Franklin, you pussy, what the fuck are you doing calling me at two o’clock in the goddamn morning?”
“I’ve got a job for you.”
There was a slight pause.
“How much?”
“A thousand bucks.”
“Fuck you.” Rollo hung up the phone, and Franklin gritted his teeth.
Then he dialed the number again.
“Two thousand,” he said when Rollo answered.
“Double it, and tell me what you want.”
Four thousand dollars. Franklin usually had that much lying around in his “who gives a fuck” box, but not tonight. He needed every damn last dollar he’d been able to get his hands on to close the Chicago deal. He was tight, his balls in a goddamn vice, but only for tonight. By tomorrow afternoon, he’d be rolling in dough and on his way to meet Katherine Gray.
But he had to get through this night and his five o’clock meeting, and his nine o’clock meeting, and for that, he was going to need Rollo and two of his guys to replace goddamn Mitch and Leroy. He wasn’t going into anything with just Dovey and Eliot at his back. Dovey was a lightweight, and Eliot was… just Eliot, damaged goods, and Bremerton belonged to Chicago.
“You, and Greg, and Sammy at my warehouse at four o’clock this morning, packing. I’ll need you until noon.”
“Packing? Double it again, Bleak, and if me or one of my boys has to actually shoot somebody, the price goes to fifty in a heartbeat.”
Fucking Rollo.
“Be here, four o’clock sharp.” God, Franklin thought, some of the people he had to deal with were such assholes. But his back was against the wall. Esme Alden was showing up at his place with eighty-two thousand dollars, her cousin-whoever in the hell that turned out to be, and maybe he better send Eliot back down into the betting room to find out-and probably this goddamn Johnny Ramos, who even if he was just a damn member of the Locos meant Franklin was really, really screwed. Gang members tended to stick together, that was the whole goddamn point of them, and if Ramos brought a few of his homeboys with him, or a couple of those damn Crazy Spiders-well, hell, if that’s the way it was going to go down, he might even be so goddamn bold as to bring Baby Duce- and if that’s the way it was going to go down, well, hell, Franklin might as well throw himself out the goddamn window right now, head fucking first, just to make it easy on himself.
And now he was going to be short eight thousand dollars.
Where in the hell was he going to find another eight thousand dollars before nine A.M.? He had four hundred and eighteen thousand dollars sitting in his safe, and Alden’s eighty-two on the way, and that was it. He’d squeezed every lime, shaken every tree, gotten all the juice out of everybody.
And he’d borrowed the rest, borrowed it from guys who would chop him up into little pieces and feed him to their goldfish if he didn’t pay it back on time, guys in New Jersey who made the Chicago boys look like amateurs.
He was so far out on a fucking limb here.
He dropped his head in his hands and took a deep breath. There was no fooling himself on the deal. The Chicago boys would notice the missing eight thousand and have his head on a platter. He knew Chicago boys. He’d been one, and it had been a bloody fucking business. The guys in New Jersey would never lay a hand on him. He’d be dead long before they figured out he’d welshed on their deal.
Fuck.
How had this happened? Five hours ago, he’d had everything under control, completely under control. And now… now-
Christ.
John Ramos. That was it. That was the problem.
For whatever reason, Ramos had walked into the middle of Franklin ’s deal and everything had gone straight to hell. Everything.
He was going to kill the bastard. If John Ramos showed up at Franklin ’s warehouse, he was going to kill him. And he was going to fuck the girl, tie her up and fuck her, and then sell her to the highest bidder, over and over again, until he had his eight thousand dollars.
Or maybe Rollo would take her in payment. That would save a lot of time and effort on Franklin ’s part. Let Rollo, and Greg, and Sammy have her in lieu of a cash payment. There wouldn’t be much left of her by the time Rollo’s crew ran through her, but that wasn’t Franklin ’s problem.
His problem was having half a million dollars in cash on hand at nine o’clock.
Goddamn Johnny Ramos.
Franklin didn’t deserve this. He really didn’t.
Sex.
And plenty of it.
Dax looked at the two kids standing in front of him, and he wondered if Easy knew that her hair was sticking out on one side, and that her exquisite Karan suit jacket was snapped incorrectly. The jacket was cattywampus and gaping, and he could tell that somehow, she’d lost her bra.
Dax let his gaze drift over the luxurious apartment Johnny Ramos had brought him to, the one across the street from the Commerce City Garage, and he noticed the low-lit bedroom on the other side of the loft.
Fifty bucks said Esme’s bra was in that room.
“So,” he said, bringing his gaze back to the two of them. “Did you count the cash?”
Standard operating procedure-always count the cash.
Always.
But from the look on Easy’s face, that vital detail had somehow gotten overlooked.
“You didn’t count it at Nachman’s?” She should have counted it at Nachman’s.
“There, uh, wasn’t time,” she said-also incorrectly. There was always time to count the cash. “Johnny was, uh, in a bind.”
A bind?
U.S. Army Rangers did not get themselves into binds that overrode standard operating procedures, not unless there was gunfire involved, and Nachman was a pacifist, in an odd manner of speaking, as long as a person wasn’t a Nazi.
“And you didn’t do it when you got here?”
“Um, no, Johnny was hurt, and I thought we should stop the, uh, bleeding,” she said.
She was, he assumed, referring to the scratch on Ramos’s face.
He got the picture, loud and clear, and he was fascinated. Easy was not easy, and in less than five hours, Johnny Ramos had caught her, wooed her, and tumbled her hard.
He checked his watch. “We should leave here about four-thirty, which gives us a couple of hours. If somebody would like to start a pot of coffee, I think we should go over our plan for the meeting and count the cash,” he said. “I can guarantee you that Bleak is going to count it. Is that Dovey Smollett I saw in the Buick LeSabre?” When he’d gotten to the corner of Vine and Hoover, he’d noticed the stakeout and called Esme for further directions to the safe house. Charo was currently safely parked in the building’s garage, with Smollett none the wiser.
“Yes, sir,” Ramos said, nearly snapping to attention.
Okay. Time for a little attitude adjustment, so to speak. Three tours of combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, Dax guessed he wasn’t surprised the kid had heard his name. He’d certainly seen recognition on the young guy’s face when Esme had introduced him as her partner, Dax Killian.
“You can forget any of those stories you heard in the Sandbox, Ranger,” he said. Hell, if even half the stories had been true, Dax might have been impressed himself-but more than half of them weren’t. Only a couple were true, but apparently, a couple were more than enough.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tonight we’re just a couple of guys with a job to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rangers, Dax thought. You had to love the Rangers.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Five A.M., party time, Esme thought, sliding out of the Cyclone’s front seat. Johnny had parked Solange on the east side of the warehouse by the loading docks, per Bleak’s instructions. She and Dax had been told someone would be waiting for them in the docking area, and there was-a huge, hulking guy standing by the building’s rear entrance.