massive property. An iron gate blocked the entrance of the winding drive. Knowing that would be easier to climb than the fence, I raced for it.
After a quick glance to confirm there was no secret button to easily open the gate, I tossed the water to the other side and squeezed my feet between the bars to climb the rattling metal. The decorative spears at the top scraped my belly and legs as I pulled myself over, but I didn’t care.
I was almost free.
Landing on the other side, I picked up the bottle and took a moment I didn’t have to glance around.
Nothing.
Just sprawling land with no buildings or houses I could run to or hide behind. The road was empty—not even the distant sound of traffic.
Picking a direction, I took off at full speed, pumping my legs until they ached. Rocks dug into my soles, my thin canvas shoes offering little cushioning.
But I didn’t slow.
I ran until my lungs burned and my vision began to tunnel. Only at the threat of passing out did I switch to a fast walk.
The stretch of empty desert was much bigger than I’d anticipated. There were no marked trails or people. I kept going, waiting to see buildings or a road in the horizon, but each step took me deeper into nothingness.
With no sounds of anyone following me—and there was no way those big guys could be silent—I slowed further. Even with my reduced pace, the sun beating down on me made sweat drip. I stopped to rest in the shade from a boulder but worried my scent would attract bugs.
Or worse.
As more time passed, my unease grew. I looked over my shoulder, but there was no sign of the house or road.
In front of me, to the sides, in back—desert.
I should’ve gone for the road.
But there was no turning back.
Maximo
Leaning back in my chair, I stared at the man sitting on the other side of my desk.
Mugsy Carmichael.
Or Ronald Carmichael, according to his birth certificate and license.
Stupid name change for a stupid man.
The longer we sat in silence, the more flop sweat dripped down his fat jowls and the more my limited patience drained.
I had four resorts to run—Moonlight, Sunrise, Star, and Nebula. I had meetings and emails and a shit-ton of headaches that came with running those four resorts. And I had a little dove to watch.
My gaze drifted to the blank security monitors that hung on the wall behind him just as he found his balls and spoke. “After we talked, Shamus McMillon, uh, disappeared.”
“Okay.” My face nor my voice gave anything away. And he was watching for confirmation that the two things were connected. Confirmation I’d killed him.
“His little girl is gone, too.”
Again, I gave away nothing. “Okay.”
Mugsy ran his hand through his black-dyed hair, the greasy pieces doing little to cover his ever-growing bald spot. “I know Shamus fucked up. He screwed you over—”
“He did?”
“Fine, we. I helped him, but only because he was about to lose everything. He’d gotten in bad—”
“I don’t give a shit what problems he had. I give a shit about getting fucked over by a cheat and a liar.”
“I said I’d make it up to you. I’m your eyes and ears. You’ll get first call about new fighters. Whatever else you want, I’ll do it.” He inhaled deeply, gathering his courage.
What a pussy.
“Juliet,” he started, saying the only thing that would interest me.
I played dumb. “Who?”
“Shamus’ little girl. She’s a sweet kid. A good kid.”
She was a tiny thing, but she was far from the pigtailed middle schooler Mugsy was trying to paint her as.
“What about her?”
Mugsy looked nervous, and I was beginning to think I’d have to disinfect the chair when he left. Or maybe just throw the thing out. I doubted the stench of sweat and B.O. would ever fade. “She had nothing to do with Shamus’ actions. She doesn’t deserve to be punished.”
“What are you insinuating?” I bit out.
“Nothing, nothing. I’m just saying, she’s gone, too.”
“If she has any sense in her head, she got as far from Shamus’ bullshit as she could.”
He hesitated, seeming to war with himself. “She has no other family. It was just her and Shamus. She’s only seventeen.”
I already knew that. Cole was finding out everything there was to know about Juliet, but it’d been a slow trickle. Shamus hadn’t kept meticulous records. No birth certificate, no school records, not even a damn tax return.
I’d only agreed to Mugsy’s meeting request on the off chance