Page 95 of Penny for Your Saints

“I’ll be damned if I won’t try.” He brushes me off—striding confidently toward the docks as Seb looks on in abject horror—the unconscious Caz requiring all of his efforts to keep upright.

“You won’t,” I say flatly—aiming my gun directly between his eyes.

Quentin freezes—uncharacteristic surprise flashing in his chartreuse eyes.

“You and the boys are going to disperse in order to improve your chances of escape.” I continue calmly and deliberately. “Seb will have to handle getting Caz out of Miami as he is currently indisposed.” I nod at the pair just outside my peripheral vision. “Once we all get out of dodge, we reconvene at the place where we all first met.”

“And what if I refuse?” Quentin puffs out his chest and lifts his chin, looking majestic as ever.

“Then I fucking kill you myself right here. It’s better than what the Windmill would do to you if they got you alive.” I whisper, pulling back the hammer.

Quentin blinks, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

“You’ve got Seb and Caz to think about. What happens if you’re taken too…” I trail off, knowing that Quentin’s own horrible imagination will do the rest.

“As soon as I can—I will find all of you. We’ll get her back,” I promise.

The look we share speaks volumes. I know, just from the crackle of mania in those eyes—Quentin will hold me to my words. I will live or die by my word as bond.

In an instant our connection is broken, and Quentin’s eyes dart away from mine.

“Get him back to the van,” Quentin orders Sébastien coldly and makes an about face–shouldering his way past Sébastien and away from me.

Now it is my turn to run.

Even though I hadn’t hot-wired a car since I was in my early twenties, it’s kind of like riding a bike—you never really lose the skill.

Well, provided you’re not trying to get yourself into one of those electric cars that’s more computer than vehicle—but you get the idea.

It was a shame to leave so many of my things on the yacht when we made a break for it, but Caz and I were able to get ourselves out of Miami completely unscathed.

The first thing I did as soon as I found us a place to sleep for the night was try to contact Frank and Q through some of our emergency backup channels.

I didn’t get anything from Frank, but almost as soon as I messaged Quentin via the direct mail function on theVinyl Sleuthweb app—I got a coded message back from him confirming his safety; and proposing a rendezvous point between our current locations and the meeting place Frank set out for us.

When Caz finally woke, head throbbing and rage boiling—I recounted the rest of the confrontation to him. Frank’s palpable fear, impossibility of approach, Quentin in the face of Frank’s gun—and, of course, me; cowering in fear—glad to have Caz as an excuse to run far away from the men with guns encircling the boat as we watched helplessly from shore.

Caz slams his fists on the dashboard and lets out an anguished cry.

We stop at the next rest stop—24-hour-mart—and I buy as much candy and energy drinks for him as my arms can hold.

When I get back to the car, Caz is sitting in the driver’s seat.

“You didn’t have to get me all that stuff. I’m not mad at you. It’s normal to be terrified of a bunch of clandestine thugs armed to the teeth.” He thumbs at his chin, nodding somewhere in the night.

“Well, that’s nice to hear, but what if I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable?” I flash him a grin, even if I’m struggling to feel convincing with the pain in my heart.

Caz gives me a look. I shrug and drop into the passenger seat—arranging the candy on the dash and fitting two of the energy drinks into the center console.

“Why don’t you hop up, eh? Let me drive—you got hit pretty hard,” I soothe, reaching out to run my thumb over the bite mark at his clavicle, the raised flesh still a little hot to the touch even through the thin layer of cotton.

“You haven’t felt anything from her yet, have you?” He doesn’t answer me, just grips the steering wheel, gnawing nervously on his bottom lip.

“No, nothing other than that low buzz like when she’s sleeping,” I say carefully, not wanting to give false hope or more cause for alarm.

Caz nods slowly, then reaches for one of the tall aluminum cans of energy drinks, popping the tab open.

“Let me drive, it’s fine—you can take a rest.” He slugs down some of the fizzy energy drink and offers me his open palm for the keys expectantly.

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