“I’m sure that means that the power surge took out the security cameras and they don’t have any footage. There was too much commotion for anyone to have seen me—I made sure of that.” I nodded quickly.
“I saw you,” Rourke growled under his breath. “The money is nice, and we might need it if we don’t find a way to get Anabelle to change her testimony, but man—why? I don’t get it.”
“What don’t you get about a million dollars?” I narrowed my eyes. “I have no intention of going back to jail or letting a jury of my fucking peers pass judgment on me. If we don’t get this shit straight wit
h Anabelle and you don’t want me to kill her, then I’m headed for the border. I’ll spend the rest of my days doing tequila shots while I’m balls deep in a Mexican whore.”
I really can’t tell Rourke the truth about Weber. He wouldn’t understand.
“You’ve changed man.” Rourke’s jaw tightened.
“Being locked up for a year will do that to someone—I don’t know how it didn’t change you.” I pushed back from the table and stood. “We should be fighting to see which one of us gets to pull the knife across Anabelle’s throat—she fucked us over!”
I should have known you wouldn’t have the balls to hurt her—not the way she deserves.
There was a time when taking a life meant something to me—before I saw how little it meant to selfish pricks like Josef Weber and Adrian Prescott. They didn’t need a knife or a gun to kill someone. They could make someone wish they were dead and leave their soul to rot. That’s certainly how I felt when Anabelle betrayed us. I might not have loved her, but I still trusted her—I believed in what she had with Rourke. If Rourke would have told me about the meeting he had with Adrian Prescott, I would have never gone with him when Anabelle called. Then again, we both had secrets.
I ate the food we bought before we came to the cabin and poured myself a drink. I didn’t care that it wasn’t even noon. It had been a long time since I had been able to get drunk in the AM, and if we got caught, I’d never have another good buzz. We wouldn’t go back to jail—they’d put us in maximum security and drive us to the courtroom in chains every day. The only reason we weren’t there already was because it was more convenient with the trial coming up.
Rourke went outside, and I sat down in front of the television. We weren’t able to get any channels except the local stations, which meant they were talking about us, no matter how many times I hit the remote. One of the channels was talking about Weber, so I tossed the remote down and lit a cigarette.
I really didn’t know what Weber did to land in the cell across from us, but I heard enough from the guards to know it had something to do with the two rich assholes that spent some time down the block from us. The news story filled in the gaps—said he did some shit to try and take over their company—and was possibly responsible for their brother’s death, which was previously believed to be a suicide. Then the lady on the screen mentioned that there was another suspect still at large—Hannah Clark.
Wow, she went from not wanting to be found to helping Weber kill her own brother? Holy shit. Wait a second—Wyatt Jackson? That’s the asshole Weber asked me to take out. Fuck… I could have ended up in a fucking cell right next to him—and I would have actually deserved to be there.
18 months ago
“Alright, Sam. This is my last one. I’ll close out my tab.” I looked at the bartender and shook my empty glass.
“You’re not staying until we shut the place down tonight?” He chuckled as he took my glass and the money, I laid on the counter.
“Nah, I got a girl waiting back at my place—I think it’s going to be a special night.” I winked at him.
“Have fun.” He waved as I started to stand.
I intend to.
I left O’Malley’s and started walking towards my car. I wasn’t very drunk, but I probably shouldn’t have been driving—not that it ever stopped me. Luckily, the house we rented was close enough to O’Malley’s Pub that I didn’t have to go very far. I was fumbling, with my hand in my pocket when a guy with a black baseball cap pulled down over his eyes approached me. My senses told me he was too close—nobody walked straight at someone on the South Side unless they were looking for a fight. I caught a glimpse of something shiny in his hand—a fucking knife. He lunged at me, but I quickly caught his hand and twisted his arm over with one quick snap of my wrist which caused the knife to hit the ground at my feet.
“Reggie?” I stared at the man as he lifted his head and I saw his face. “What the fuck man?”
“Brody—I’m sorry.” He had a panicked expression on his face. “I had to!”
“Had to what? Drop your knife?” I kept his arm pinned and bent down to pick it up. “Give me one good reason to return it to you about ten times—blade first!”
“Brody—please. I got a wife—she’s pregnant!” Tears started to form in the corner of his eyes.
“Not my problem.” I jammed the knife into his ribs—not enough to actually penetrate, just enough to hurt. “Did Weber send you after me?”
“Yeah—yeah, he’s pissed.” Reggie’s face twisted into a grimace. “He said you know too much! Either you work for him, or you…”
“I have to die?” I finished his sentence and gave him enough of the blade to pierce his skin.
“Please…” He started crying—fuck, he started bawling.
“Reggie, the only reason I’m not pushing this knife deep enough to puncture your fucking liver is because I want you to deliver a message to Mr. Weber. Can you do that?” I tilted my head to the side.
“Yeah—yeah I can do that.” Reggie nodded furiously.