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“I don’t care about your comfort,” he says, and I believe him. “The Organization doesn’t care about your goddamn comfort. Oh, you’ll get power and money, but don’t ever think it’s about your needs. We have bigger plans than this city, this state. This coast.”
The muscles in my back stiffen, and I fight the urge to sit up and do something. This is info. This is a clue.
Bigger plans. Just how much bigger are we talking about?
Shit.
“Okay, fine.” I force my voice to be level, neutral, just shy of bored. “So what do you want from me?”
His smirk is lazy and sharp. It’s the smirk of a very large predator. Shit, I should practice it for future use.
“You will make a phone call. And you will set up what I tell you, exactly as I tell you. And when that goes through without a hitch, then… Well, then, boy, you’re in, like you wanted, and I’ll answer your idiotic questions.”
Fair enough. So far so good. This was the sort of demand I’d expected.
I pretend to think about it. “What would I be setting up?”
The smirk widens. “We just want the same thing your parents gave us when they joined: a little insurance.”
Yeah, I bet you do.
***
My parents went through the same process.
The thought angers me and saddens me and makes me want to punch a wall. Had they changed their minds at some point, but had no way out? What sort of “insurance” did the Organization demand?
See my earlier thoughts: nothing good. Something they can later hold over your head in case you change your mind.
Fucking awesome.
And what do I have to show for my efforts and my amazeballs plan so far? The name of one top member and a vague threat of gearing up to take over the country.
Or the world?
Doesn’t matter. It’s something.
Not good enough, Hawk, I hear my grandfather’s voice in my head. Not nearly good enough. Not for the heir of the Fleming Empire. Not for someone who can change the world.
No pressure, Grandpa. No fucking pressure.
The urge to rub at the roses inked on my chest is overwhelming, like an itch I can’t scratch. Roses hiding secrets, the roses Storm, Rook and I had inked on our bodies when we were teenagers, agreeing that there were things we couldn’t share with each other yet—but would do, some day.
Fucking flowers. Fucking secrets. Sometimes I wish I could take them off my chest—both ink and my past—but every time I tried, I couldn’t. Couldn’t tell my friends about my loss of hearing. About my grandfather. About the feeling my life isn’t worth jack, and that I carry responsibility for the whole damn world.
Sandivar is talking with someone—on the phone, probably. They are behind me, and no matter how I twist around, I can’t see them.
Motherfucker. He’s fucking with my mind. Not hard to see how badly not seeing them rattles me.
I can hear snatches of their conversation. Nothing that makes sense. I try my best to relax where I’m sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around myself, the cold doing great things to my bruised ribs. Trying to prepare myself for whatever this asshole is about to ask of me.
In my mind I picture the faces of Rook and Storm—my childhood friends, distant cousins, and partners in this crazy plan—and almost laugh out loud. Storm pacing and cursing up a blue streak, and Rook glaring a hole into the wall and polishing his gun.
Wait, that came out wrong.
Getting ready for battle, anyway. Shitting bricks, waiting for me to ping them, to know I’m still alive.
Hell, I am shitting bricks. I need to get out alive. Need to bring the information home. That signal from my watch had better work. It’s a unique watch, custom made. True James Bond gadget. That made me grin when I got it, now not so much anymore.
