Page 3 of Brutal Truths

“Both are in critical condition. Rushed into surgery. I’m not sure how it works, but with only four surgeons on tonight—and Jen now a patient—I’m assuming Izzy’s operating on one.”

Chances are she is. It’s not ideal performing surgery on her guards, but when she’s their only hope, ethics go out the window.

“Teddy’s arse is parked in the waiting area outside the surgical wing with Marty. He showed up twenty minutes after they took the other two back.”

“Which guards?” I ask backing out of my spot and head for the exit.

“The women: Lynette and Sasha. He said he got a call and rushed over. Not sure from whom.”

The only question I have now is, “Where’s the fucker, Ryan?”

“That’s why I’m heading to her house.” Lane’s voice tightens. “Marty told Teddy that Ryan took some sleeping pills before he went down; was out cold.”

I grip the wheel harder and merge into traffic. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Now wait. Ryan just got off shift, and he expected a twelve-hour break.”

It kills me to hear my friend defend the shithead I don’t trust.

“But that’s not the only reason I’m heading there. Teddy said Marty’s acting… suspicious. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Like he’s a completely different person.”

I blast my horn when some dipshit pulls out in front of me without warning. “What the hell does that mean? How?”

“Marty has a twin. An identical one. Marvin. And guess what?”

If Lane doesn’t just spit it out soon, I’m reaching through this phone and strangling him.

“What?” I growl.

“He’s part of the Doyle mob family. Been in prison for the last five years. Got out a few days ago.”

Shut the fuck up.

My headlights cut through the empty street in front of my house as I stare out the windshield into the darkness. “What was he in prison for?”

My gut tells me this information is crucial in understanding why he’d be in Oxford.

What the hell is going on?

“Trafficking charges. Served his time. Made a few new friends while there. Two Russians.”

The two Russians I recently met flash through my mind; their faces sharp and clear.

“Pauly’s got someone he trusts handling it. We should know more within the hour.”

I don’t like this. Not after all the shit I’ve learned. This feels like a setup.

“I need to take Bear inside. As soon as you get there, ring me.”

“Sure thing. We’ll be in Oxford in roughly ten minutes.” He hangs up.

I sit in my car for a few seconds, my mind spinning out of control. Then my fist slams into the dash. “Fuck.”

What the hell is going on?

A bitterness floods my mouth. If the Russians are involved—the same ones who were working with Cort and Rico—does that mean the Del Markovs are as well?

I don’t like this one damn bit.