Page 23 of Rowe

“We can shoot the pillow if it gets difficult.” Mara stared at him.

“He’s joking,” Rowe said. Beaux set the bag down. “About the pillow.” Tucker’s phone vibrated. He read Patrick’s message and released a breath.

“They left.” Mara turned her face toward the wall.

“They’ll come back.” Rowe sat on the edge of the mattress.

“Then we’ll still be here.”

“You don’t understand Rossi.”

“You remembered his name? You didn’t remember that before,” said Rowe. She stared at him, surprised at her own comment and nodded.

“I guess I did,” she whispered. “Victor Rossi. He owned all of it. He was the one that decided to kill us. Especially me.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Victor Rossi listened to excuses the way other men listened to bad weather: without surprise, without sympathy, and with the private certainty that somebody should have prepared better.

The three men stood across from his desk in a room cooled to sixty-eight degrees. Outside the black glass, heat shimmered above the city roofs. Inside, the air smelled of leather, espresso, and the faint mineral scent of the stone wall behind him. Victor had designed the room so nothing rattled, buzzed, or begged for attention. The only sound was the careful breathing of men who had returned without Mara Guillory.

Dean stood in the middle. His black jacket hung over one forearm. The shirt beneath it had dried in pale salt lines. To his right, Hollis kept his hands clasped behind his back. To his left, Mercer watched the floor as though he had misplaced something important there.

Victor turned one page in the thin folder before him.

“Begin again. All three of you dressed in black during a heat advisory, walked into a small hospital, and asked for an unidentified injured woman. You believe that appeared respectful?”

“The staff obstructed us,” Dean said. “Then five local men interfered. Large men. They were looking for trouble.”

Victor closed the folder.

“I sent three men to collect one injured woman quietly. You returned six hours later with no woman, no confirmation of her condition, no useful image, no room number, and no certainty that she was still in the building when you arrived.”

“We warned them.” Dean lowered his head as he spoke, knowing it could be the last words he ever spoke.

“One was called Patrick. Another was Christopher. We heard the others called Jethro, Kai, and Sonny.”

“Five unarmed men stood in a public lobby,” Victor said, “and my three specialists lost their objective.”

“Dean reached inside his jacket,” said Hollis, completely unconcerned for throwing his friend under the bus.

“Kai moved after Dean reached.”

“You turned a failed inquiry into a witnessed threat. In a lobby with cameras.” He slammed his fist on the desk and stood, glaring at the three men. “Because your companions stopped you, or because the five men made the outcome clear?” Dean’s silence answered.

Victor casually walked to the window. Distance improved almost everything, including incompetence.

“What did you tell them about me?” Dean said nothing. Hollis answered instead.

“Dean said our employer owned half the river traffic south of the clinic. He mentioned judges, deputies, and businesses that could be closed.”

Victor turned.

“Did he use my name?” Mercer nodded.

“At the door. He said Mr. Rossi would find the woman.” Dean stepped forward.

“They needed to understand who they were dealing with.”