Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
“I can tell you who did,” I say, deadpan. “And he’s back from the dead.”
“Then the Russians should be scared.”
“Russians?” I mimic, wary. “They’re dead.”
“Not this one. Sandy. He was sourced as a contact for me. Weapons. Turns out he’s under The Bear.”
“Fuck me,” I say over an exhale. “Why The Bear? We’ve got snakes and sharks, so why would the illusive head of this web of crime and corruption go with something so . . . fluffy?”
Brad snorts. “Fluffy?”
I shrug. If I was going to pluck the name of an animal out of the air to instill fear into everyone, it wouldn’t be a bear. “I’m just saying, kids take bears to bed and cuddle them all night.”
“I’ve never understood that,” Brad muses, kicking his ankle up onto his knee. “I didn’t have a teddy bear. You?” he asks, and I shake my head. Stupidest fucking question ever. “You?” he asks, turning to James.
“Are we actually having this conversation?” James asks, looking between us in exasperation.
I smile on the inside. He had a bear. And that’s where James and I are different. I was dragged up until I was ten. James must have had every luxury a kid could dream of, passing the days away on his country estate playing tennis, horse riding, and doing all the other things people from England who live on acres of land do. His father may have been a drug tycoon, but he was a lavish, bold man. I know because I looked him up. Of course I did. And I can’t deny, reading about the assassination of Spencer James and his family made my blood run cold for no other reason than getting a hint of the anger and hate James harbors. Miami isn’t ready for the both of us. But it should be thankful we’re here, because the alternative . . .
Returning my attention to Brad, I get us off the subject of bears before James slams his head onto my desk. “What’s the deal with Perry Adams?” We’ll start with him.
“The mayor?” Otto questions.
“And ex bent lawyer.” I raise my eyebrows and collect my phone. “We go back a long way.”
“He checks out,” Brad says. “Bank accounts all legit, no red flags, no extramarital affairs. Looks like he’s finally being a good boy.”
I nod and dial a number that’s been etched on my brain since the day Pops formed an alliance with him. It’s been three years since we’ve had contact. He answers without a word, and I click it to loudspeaker, placing my mobile on the desk. He’s waiting for me to speak. Waiting to see if it’s really me or someone else. Probably hoping on the latter.
“Chaka,” I say quietly.
“Fuck me to Miami and back,” he whispers, and I smile. “The fucking Brit?”
“I need guns.” I get straight to the point, as I always did.
“Why would a dead man need an arsenal?”
“Because he’s not dead anymore.”
He laughs, and it’s deep, rumbling, ground-moving stuff. “I’m not dealing in the States anymore.”
“Then start,” I say flatly.
“Too risky, my friend. And business is booming here in my fine African Nations.”
“You once told me the meaning of your name, Chaka,” I say, digging deep for anything that’ll win me this battle. I need these fucking guns, and I can’t get them from anywhere else.
“And?”
“And you told me it means ‘king’ in the tribal community where you were born.” He’s silent. He knows where I’m going with this. “So be a fucking king.”
“Or?”
“Or the lions might prey on that peaceful community of yours, Chaka. You don’t want that, do you?”
He laughs again, this time light. “Back with a bang, eh, Black?”
“Yeah, and I’d hate for you to be caught in the blast. Do we have a deal?”
“I’ll be in touch.”
I hang up. “How does the Jepson estate stand?” I ask Brad, knowing he’ll have done his homework on that too, ready for my questions.
“Still in a trust until the kid is twenty-one.”
“He must have a guardian. Find out who.”
“Got it.”
“And while you’re at it, we need someone to run it when we’ve secured it.”
“You sound confident.”
“I am.” I squint, thinking. “Why hasn’t Byron’s Reach been snapped up by some other criminal lord? It’s the perfect place on the coast to bring in shit to the States.”
“The place was crawling with FBI for a long time after you died, Danny,” Ringo says from the couch, coming back to life, his brain still looking like it’s hurting, judging by the mass of lines spanning his massive forehead. “No one in their right mind would go near it again.”
“Then clearly I’m not in my right mind.” I push my glass toward Brad, and he fills it. “What I want to know is, where the fuck are all these criminals smuggling in their drugs, women, and guns?” I look at James, noting his stretched silence.