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Thomas
The only things that have kept me on my feet the last three days are fury and caffeine. From the moment I woke up beside Clara in bed until now, I haven’t slept more than five hours. I only eat because I know I need to be ready for action at any moment. But sleep… sleep is impossible. I haven’t been able to lay down in my bed without smelling Clara’s raspberry shampoo on the pillows.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I check it, leaning against the side of a brick building with a swagger I don’t feel. An unlit cigarette is pinched between my lips, and I consider giving in and lighting it for the thousandth time. The nicotine would settle the shake that might not show in my fingers, but that I feel in my bones.
Except that I fully intend to see Clara later tonight. And aside from the personal failure of rediscovering a bad habit I kicked a decade ago, I don’t want her smelling the smoke on my tongue when I kiss her hello.
My baseball cap is low on my brow, and my head bowed toward my phone. I’m in casual clothes I don’t usually tolerate, baggy pants and a white t-shirt under a dark blue bomber jacket. I look like a man loitering outside of this bar, maybe waiting for a friend or a date. But hidden under my disguise are three handguns and several replacement magazines, all carefully strapped to snug body armor.
There are people hidden on every rooftop in this intersection, both my own and Derrick’s cops, also dressed in plainclothes. I see a couple flirting loudly at a cafe table across the street that I know are police. Window shopping near them is Graham, one of my generals. The text I just received was his check in and headcount. We’re still waiting for two more cops to get in place.
The bar at my back- and more specifically, the drug den beneath it- is Morgan’s biggest money-maker in the city. I wanted to lead this raid so I could personally watch it go up in smoke. Across Speare territory, five more raids are being organized according to the intel I’ve shared with Derrick. On my signal, we’ll all move in together.
And then I’m leading my party straight to Morgan’s estate and getting Clara out.
This is the culmination of months of planning, of years of rebuilding power and influence that my father let slip through his fingers. I still haven’t brought the Warwicks back to what we were before the schism, not yet. But after tonight, my empire will be within reach at last.
So why do I feel like this shouldn’t be my priority right now?
I send a text to Iris, leading her own raid several blocks away, relaying Graham’s info. We have minutes left to wait until everyone is in place, but I’m chomping at the bit to start moving now. Between every minute, eternities of grim possibilities unspool in my mind.
Clara has been under her uncle’s roof for three days. I have eyes on Morgan’s territory, but not on his estate. If Clara had been seriously hurt, how would I know? If she had been killed-
No, that I would have heard. Word of the murder of the boss’s niece by the boss would have spread like wildfire among the Speare people, and my own people would have heard it. Unfortunately, that isn’t a comfort to me at all.
Because many things can be done to a person before they actually die.
And because the last time I was beside Clara, I kept distance between us. I didn’t argue with her when she called herself a tool, when she encouraged me to use her. Right then and there, I should’ve told her the truth.
The truth…
Another text comes through, a reply from Iris. It says only one word, which is even more sparing than Iris’s usual messages.
Iris: steady
I check my previous texts. How did she pick up on my impatience through my updates? Was I updating too much? I send her a question mark, and she replies.
Iris: you’re turning into a real daredevil. call me crazy, but I think I can feel your restless energy from here.
I frown at my phone, but she’s not wrong. In fact, she’s so right that she could’ve read my mind from just moments before. I need to focus. Failing here would be disastrous for my plans to move on Morgan’s main estate. I have to make sure these raids cause enough chaos that there’s little resistance when I move on him directly.
My phone buzzes again, and I brace myself for more of Iris’s nagging. But when I look at my screen, there are no words there. The message is from Iris, but it’s just a picture. No, it’s a screenshot of a text conversation that must be from Iris’s phone.
Someone listed as ‘mine’ sent her a picture.
Slender fingers hold up a sketchbook for the camera to see, and on the page is a portrait done in graphite. I know the face, the smiling eyes and the neat but youthful hairstyle. Clara even managed to capture a slight quirk in the eyebrows that might make the viewer question if what they’re seeing is really the truth.
What a fitting expression for a politician.
I zoom in on the picture a dozen different ways. I scan Clara’s fingers where they peek out from behind the sketchbook for any sign of injury- incisions, nails removed, bruising or other hints of broken bones. Nothing. Next, I try to get a look around the sketchbook, hoping to catch any hint of her location. All I see are blurry, pale walls. A cell, most likely.
Next, I focus on Derrick Lindman’s smiling face, rendered with startling accuracy considering the fact that Clara only met him once in person. The only flaw in his portrait is the enormous blocky X drawn over his mouth, like a graffiti signature over a mural.
Finally, I catch the top half of the text bubble that came in after the picture, cut off by the edge of the app window. Whoever ‘mine’ is, sent only, Be safe, love.
My heart starts pounding too fast.
Me: Where did you get this from?
