Page 124 of Secondhand Smoke

The room was silent save for the soft whispers of each bill settling onto the table. One after the next. And then they stopped, and the man looked up at her, two neat stacks in front of him. All the money she had in the world.

“You’re short,” he said.

Panic lanced through her. “W-what? Are you sure? I-I counted. I counted it twice. Six-thousand, seven-hundred. It’s all there.”

He gave her a small, grim smile, flashing nicotine stained teeth. “That’s supposed to beseven-thousand, seven-hundred, sweetheart.”

“What?” A low buzzing started up in her ears. “No, there has to be some mistake. On the phone, he said six. I heard six…”

“You heard wrong.”

~*~

He no longer had to wonder what it was like to be behind bars. Maybe because he was no good at being an outlaw, because he was too careful, because he was a pussy, Tango had never even spent one night in lockup. Funny, because of all his brothers, he was the one best equipped to get put away and deal with all the indignities prison entailed.

But this wasn’t prison, where there were guards, gang alliances, and at least some semblance of order. He had a hard bunk, and a toilet, but this was some place of Don Ellison’s design. No club brothers on the inside to join up with, no trading cigs for protection, no flashlights and nightsticks to come to the rescue.

The hard chill of the concrete floor was seeping through the seat of his jeans, slowly lowering his body temp until he began to shiver. His cell was wall to the right, to the back, a view of another cell through the bars to his left. And of course the bars straight ahead, hard stainless steel, not even wide enough to allow his arm passage.

He’d come to in here, head throbbing from the blow to the back of it, the memories of his assault fuzzy at the edges. That SUV, and the car behind, men emptying out of both and blocking his path. He’d resisted, but he was just one against many, and fighting hand-to-hand had never been his strong suit. Now, if they’d wanted lap dances…

He groaned and wiped his hands down his face. He was a hostage.Damn it.

A sound somewhere above him, like a door scraping back. Footfalls, breathing echoing off the concrete. Dread coiled tight in his belly as he listened to a descent and then an approach. They were coming for him so soon. He knew what that meant.

But then two goons came into view, a captive held between them, a small, shuffling girl with a mane of dark hair hiding her face, her head downcast. She was dressed in jeans, tall boots, and a brown blazer that was smudged and torn at one front pocket, like they’d been rough with her.

Her guards marched her into the cell beside him, shoved her roughly down, and locked the door, neither of them sparing him a look as they left again. More footfalls, scrape of the door again. And then it was quiet, save the shuddering draw of breath in the cell beside him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, like a total idiot. But he had to saysomethingto the poor girl.

She sat up, slowly, as if she were sore, gathered her legs in front of her, and pushed her hair back. She was very pretty, and very young.Very young. Her eyes were full of tears, but there was no evidence that any had slipped down her face. She took another deep breath and glanced over at him, wary.

“Not really,” she said.

“Me neither.”

She dashed the back of her hand beneath her nose. “Why are you here?”

“Hostage. You?”

“Same. Do you know where we are?”

“No idea.”

She sighed. “Damn.” Her eyes flitted over again. In a semblance of unnecessary bravery, she said, “I’m Whitney.”

He almost smiled. “Kev.”

Twenty-Six

Aidan kicked one of their crappy kitchen chairs and spun away from it in frustration.

“…leave a message.” Beep.

“Kev,” he snapped into his phone, “this is the third fucking message I’ve left you. If you wanna just live with that uptight tea-and-crumpets bastard, whatever, that’s your business. But you didn’t drop rent with the super and he screamed at my ass when I got home.” Beneath his tirade simmered a worry that doubled by the minute. Tango had never come back to work, no call, no text, no explanation. “Call me back, damn it,” he said, and disconnected.

Hope spiked as the apartment door opened, then dimmed when he saw it was Carter.

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