Nice try, but actually, Esme was not a very convincing liar.

“No,” Eliot said, a little unsurely. He was facing Esme, but reached back into the van and threaded his fingers through Esme’s mother’s hair before taking a strong, one-handed grip on her head. “Mr. Bleak told me to snap her neck, if things went wrong, and I think this is wrong.”

And that’s what came from thinking-trouble.

Johnny raised his pistol, lining up on Eliot’s head and moving forward. If the bastard made another move, he was dead.

And the bastard did, but it wasn’t to snap Beth Alden’s neck. With his attention on Esme, the fighter slowly slid his other hand to his waist, thumbing aside his jacket, his hand open. The instant Johnny saw the guy’s gun, he fired.

Eliot dropped like a stone, his pistol never leaving its holster.

Inside the warehouse, three of Bleak’s guys scattered like rats at the sound of gunfire, all of them heading in some fashion toward the loading docks door, leaving Dax and Duce squared off with Dovey Smollett and some big guy in a Chicago Bears jacket. But it wasn’t a contest. Within a split second of the gunshot, Dax had drawn his pistol, getting the drop on everybody, and was moving toward the back of the warehouse.

“Duce, you cover them.”

“I’m cool,” the Locos shot caller said, drawing a big, old, unwieldy but intimidating “Dirty Harry”.357 Magnum out of the back of his pants.

Gangsters, Dax thought.

White boys, Duce thought, barely holding off from a grin. He had two of them in his sights, two of Bleak’s. That jerk, to think he was going to pull off a coke deal in Duce’s backyard with the Parkside

Bloods looking on.

Bleak was fucking nuts.

And he’d gone up those stairs with a duffel bag full of eighty-two thousand dollars.

Duce liked that. He liked it a lot. He liked it so much, he was going to take his.357 and go give Franklin asshole Bleak a little visit.

But he owed Dax Killian, so he stayed put right up until Dax went through that back door, and then Duce moved out, running about half sideways to keep his gun leveled at the two white boys.

The big guy lifted his hands with a phone in one, which was nice, real polite. Little old Dovey Smollett was shaking so bad, Duce doubted if he’d be raising anything for a while.

“Hey,” the guy in the damn Chicago Bears jacket said. Didn’t he know he was in Bronco country? “Can I call my girl? I’m running late, and uh, she gets real mean if I’m late.”

Jerk white boys, couldn’t even keep their women in line.

“Sure, cabrón, call your woman.”

The guy hit a speed dial, and man, his woman must have been sitting on her phone, she answered so fast.

“Loretta,” the guy said. “Honey baby, this party is almost over, been some real noise out here. If you want to see me, you better be ready now… sure, baby. See you soon.”

Honey baby? Duce liked that. He thought his Carmelita might like honey baby, too. He knew she’d like the eighty-two thousand.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he started sidestepping up, keeping his gun on those two white boys the whole way.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Oh, my, God-Esme moved even faster down the side of the building, heading for the corner, which she hoped would provide her with some cover. She’d just gotten Eliot lined up in her sights, when the other shot had been fired and Eliot had disappeared from her field of view.

“Esme,” a voice called out, and she stopped cold.

Oh, my, God-relief flooded through her. It was Johnny.

She started forward, running toward the van, when his voice stopped her.

“Go get Solange, bring her around. I’ll get your mom.”

“Is she-”

“Fine,” he said. “She’s fine, but we need to leave, now. Oh, hell.”

“What?” she called out, backpedaling for a moment, but still heading around the corner for the Cyclone. With Bleak out cold and Eliot dead, she couldn’t imagine that Dovey or those other guys were going to give them too much trouble about getting her dad and getting the hell out of here.

“I can smell the cops coming, that’s all. Come on, Esme, move.”

She did, breaking into a run. He’d left the keys in the ignition, and she didn’t have any trouble firing the Cyclone up and finding reverse. She hit the lights, and after a few feet, spun the wheel and eased back around the corner, until she came to a stop at the van. She threw the shifter into neutral and pushed down the parking brake.

Eliot was everywhere, literally, but she didn’t dwell on it. Snap her mother’s neck? She didn’t think so, and she was oh, so grateful to Johnny for keeping that from happening. If he hadn’t, she would have-and there still would have been Eliot everywhere.

Between the two of them, they got her mom into the passenger seat, and Esme was about to crawl into the backseat, when the warehouse door opened and another shaft of light fell out on the Cyclone.

“Are we clear?” Dax asked, his gaze catching hers.

“Clear,” she said.

“And the money?”

“Up the stairs behind you. In a duffel on the floor in Bleak’s office, next to him.”

The door closed again, and she and Johnny both got in the rumbling Cyclone.

“Where’s my dad?” she asked.

“On his way to the hospital in Duce’s Escalade.”

Thank God. Esme allowed herself another moment of relief. Now all they needed was Dax and to get the hell out of here.

Dax ran up the stairs, burst through the door, and immediately saw Bleak bleeding and tied on the floor, out cold.

He couldn’t help but grin. His bad girl was so good, and he was so proud of her.

He snatched up the duffel and turned to leave, when the other door in Bleak’s office opened, and suddenly, there he was in a true Mexican standoff. Duce stood in the doorway, his.357 in his hand, and a whole lot of “what the fuck am I gonna do now” on his face.

“You let those guys go?” Dax asked, and Duce shrugged, but he still had his.357.

Yeah, that’s the way this was going to go down. Goatfuck all the way. He didn’t want to kill Duce, not for money, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Duce kill him.

“Let’s call it good,” Dax suggested, unzipping the bag and without a moment’s hesitation or even bothering to look, he reached in and pulled out ten thousand dollars. He’d counted it. He knew exactly what was in each bundle and he had four bundles of twenty-five hundred in his hand.

He put the cash on the floor.

“Let’s call it good,” he repeated, and at Duce’s short nod, he turned and left-a done deal.

He all but slid down the stairs, crossed the betting room on a running stride, and hit the door with enough force to knock it back on its hinges, and he no sooner cleared the door than he heard two things-the rumbling roar of Johnny revving up the Cyclone, and the sound of sirens closing in.