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“If that’s what they said to you.”
“Someone who isn’t you?”
“Scarlett.” I sigh. Shit. I need a plan. When whoever the fuck turns up here, I don’t want them to see her.
I’ll step in as JM. The man who’ll do anything to protect his woman.
Buy time.
“Listen, someone’s going over the footage to see if we can get a look at the car or the person who left with your cousin. But until we get more information, help me help you and Amelia.”
I scan the hallway outside the room. There’s one more door at the end. It’s open. I take her hand and pull her toward it. “To do that, I’ll take care of whoever’s coming. And I need you to hide.”
I hear a sound and shove her into the room.
“Trust me?” I mutter it one more time, my hand on the door handle.
“Never,” she says.
I smile. “That’s my girl.”
That single word she utters holds a grudging trust. It’s tenuous and comes with all sorts of addendums and clauses. But it’s a start.
And that’s all I need right now.
I pull out my Kimber, make doubly sure it’s loaded, and tuck it at the front of my jeans, front and fucking center. It basically says, ‘Hey, I’m JM, an arms dealer and sleazy kink club owner, someone new to full-time living in New York, a mover and shaker in the world of crime.’
Whoever took Amelia is going to want to negotiate, set something up, see what the playing field is. The backpack was meant to push Scarlett or her father into panic mode.
A question nips at my brain. Why wouldn’t they have called Grant? Why not the girl’s father? Unless, of course, he got a call, too.
But then why wouldn’t he have reached out to me?
Fuck, I don’t like this.
I shut off the ringer on my phone when I followed fucking Scarlett here. I take it from my pocket to check it.
There were three missed calls from Grant Hanlon.
Son of a bitch.
I pick up Amelia’s backpack and head to the front of the warehouse.
The door creaks open.
My Kimber burns a hole in my flesh, my fingers twitching to pull it and shoot.
“JM,” the man says as he steps inside. “I’d say I’m surprised to see you, but who the fuck would I be kidding?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
scarlett
I don’t trust him.
My hands shake where I press them against the door, teeth chattering uncontrollably.
Panic has launched an all-out assault on me, but it doesn’t swallow up the rage percolating in my chest.
