Page 4 of Undertow

I’d kick his seat if I could move my leg.

Shit. The Palmetto Grande? Rumor is that’s the hub of the McArthur empire. The favorite residence of the family and one of the main cash cows of the entire organization. Why am I being called directly to the gilded palace?

There goes my heart rate again.

Fear is a scratch not a?—

“Well, would you look at that. Those bastards are building a bed and breakfast now? Wait until the boss hears about that.”

“You don’t think he already knows?” My tone conveys just how annoyed I am, scrunched on the floor like a fugitive. Maybe I am one.

Running. Always running. From fate? No. Myself and what I’ve become.

“Of course he knows. It was a figure of speech. When’d you become such a dick, anyway?”

Abe says this like we’re old friends. I know absolutely nothing about the guy. And I hate the fact that he probably knows a lot about me.

“When you shoved me in the back of your car like a gym bag,” I grunt.

“Not my fault. Orders from the top. You can’t be seen.”

“Seen by whom?”

“The trash.”

“The trash?”

“The Hartfords.”

“Who the hell are the Hartfords?”

“I can’t say any more. That shit is way above my paygrade.”

Great. More secrets to file and solve. My brain is a fucking congressional library at this point.

The vehicle stops and Abe lowers the window again.

“Hey, boss,” he says, his tone more genuine this time.

“’Sup. You got the kid?”

“In the back.”

“Good. McArthur is waiting for him. He’s hottoday,so better get your asses up there asap.”

“Roger that.”

The window closes and we continue on.

“I’m moving up front now,” I say, pushing up from the floor.

“Nah, I kind of like the peace and quiet up here.”

“Asshole,” I mumble as I climb into the passenger seat.

My mood lifts when I look out the window. Rows of tall palm trees line the stone drive like sentinels guarding their tropical kingdom. Lush vegetation blankets the landscape behind them, obstructed at various points by man-made structures, statues, and fountains. It’s like a living, breathing postcard. No wonder the McArthurs chose this location for their personal lair.

“So this is Palmetto Acres?”

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