Page 92 of Something like Redemption

There is no other option—my dad and Phil have to die.

That was always the plan, but I hoped it was when I was a little less fugitive. I want to make myself known to my dad but remain elusive to the police. It’s hard to do both, but I’ve been doing a good job of it thus far.

Quinn looks incredibly plagued by his suggestion, but I get it, and I know he has my back. There is no cemented plan just yet, but we’ve agreed to stay underground from the police, but wave a red flag for my dad and Phil, and hope like hell they’ll come charging.

And when they do, Quinn and I will be ready.

And to be ready, we need guns.

And lots of them.

The only problem is, how do we obtain an arsenal with no ID and just a wad of cash to back us up?

We can’t. Well, not legally, anyway. And this is where my street smarts come in handy. I know shady when I see it. And a fruit shop that doesn’t sell any fresh fruit is shady.

“Let me go in,” Quinn says, yanking onto my hand, trying to stop me from waltzing into the alleged fruit shop in a back alleyway downtown.

“No way,” I reply with half a chuckle. “Leave this to me.”

Quinn sighs, knowing there is no changing my mind.

To ease the tension, I try to make light of what we’re about to do. “You do remember what I used to do for a living, right?”

But Quinn’s lips dip into a sad frown as he takes a steadying breath. “Every day, Red.”

Standing on tippy-toes, I kiss his lips quickly, appreciating the empathy, but it’s not necessary.

“Trust me?” I say, resting my forehead against his.

“With my life,” he replies without a second thought.

And I smile as I reciprocate the feeling.

Glancing up and down the narrow alleyway to ensure no one is following us, I give Quinn one final, reassuring look and enter through the doorway with Quinn behind me.

The woman behind the front counter eyes us, no doubt committing our faces to memory.

“What you want?” she scowls in broken English, crossing her arms over her bountiful bust.

A few bananas and apples decorate the near bare shelves, hoping to convince any poor soul who happens to make a wrong turn that this is an actual operational fruit shop. But I know I’m right and we have come to the right place.

Looking subtly around the small space, I see the blinking red lights of four security cameras, filming our every move. And I know if we make thewrongmove, it’ll be the last we ever make.

Wishing I paid more attention in Spanish class, I’m forced to use my street slang.

“Roscoe or gats, you selling?” I ask, looking behind her shoulder to where a beaded curtain sways with the steady flow of the air-conditioning.

Guns have so many street names that it’s hard to know which to use. But often when someone wants to use a code for weaponry, so that bystanders don’t overhear, they’ll pick a word starting with the same letter, and only the insiders know what they’re asking for. For example—Roscoe for revolver, gat for guns, and so on.

The lady’s brown eyes narrow as she sizes me up, and Quinn is instantly flush against me, letting me know he’s got my back if things go south.

“No English,” she says, waving me off and shaking her head, her gray-streaked bun bopping from the momentum.

I know for a fact she’s lying. So I resort to using the universal language that every individual on this planet understands.

And that is the language of money.

Bending slowly with my hand raised in surrender, I use the other to reach into my boot.

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