Twisted Fate (Dark Heart Duet #2) - Ella James Page 0,83
movement on the H yet, nor the pink ops. We don’t know how the FBI would react if Elise’s office questions them about all that. Sure, it’s not a crime, what I do, but only a few people in the local office know about it. If the broader organization—the FBI, or the D.A.’s office—did some looking around, they might find it’s not nefarious but still decide to twist it up and use it to get me, in lieu of solid drug trafficking charges.
That’s what you get when you live your whole life underneath the table. How can I expect it to be different?
Soren says it’s okay. Alesso wants me to do something, and I understand. But what do I do? Nicci Woodbern, the main contact I had there, left her post in late June. Had a baby. Even if she was still around…just because they look the other way for a time doesn’t mean you’re in the clear. It’s the system’s game—it always is, no matter what you tell yourself, no matter what Roberto says from Europe. System’s game, the system’s rules. The best we have is Soren’s hacker voodoo, which will never paint a complete picture.
For a few days, I think seriously of calling Elise.
We’ve moved locations in Queens twice, but Soren keeps finding surveillance devices wherever we are. We know it’s Aren. So we talk—Alesso and I talk—about just stopping. Pausing.
It’s my call. My responsibility. I’m in charge with Roberto out now, and anyway, it’s been my thing from the beginning.
I don’t know how much Alesso cares whether we quit or not.
He tells me, “I’m not worried. But maybe you should call her”—Elise. “Just the spirit of the thing.” He’s saying it’s bad business for us not to have our asses covered.
We might be okay. We just won’t know for sure unless it goes sideways. I could ask Elise. I know I could. But I find I won’t. I’m being selfish, choosing to refrain from meddling, from making Elise feel pushed, over safety for Alesso and Soren. So I start doing the exchange myself. It’s the only way to make this fair.
I’m thinking about that as I run rosa’s route in Central Park on a Saturday morning. Pretty fucking humid out here. I need to get some running shoes that have some mesh or some shit, so my feet don’t get hot. Maybe I should quit running her route. She hasn’t done it in a long while—that I know of. I keep dropping back in case she’s starting late, but why would she be starting late?
You’re getting fucking desperate, I tell myself.
When I near my car—within twenty feet of the driver’s side door—I get a text, and my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket and look down at the screen, curious to see who’s pinging me at 6:45 on Saturday morning.
It’s a black heart. That’s it.
When I look up, I find Aren’s standing by my driver’s side door.
He’s so tall and thin—that’s how I know it’s him. He’s dressed in all black, wearing a scarf that covers his face. He holds up his phone as I close the space between us.
“I’m sending something to you,” he says. “On the text message. A screen shot of something you did!” He lunges toward me. Something cold presses to my side as his hand squeezes my shoulder. I’m twisting his wrist as I realize it must be a blade. I twist hard enough to hurt, because no one pulls a knife on me—not now, not ever. But the way I twist his arm makes his hand drive the blade deeper into my side.
I shove his chest and walk around the car, scanning the rooflines of nearby buildings for cams as he comes at me, this time with just raised hands.
“You trying to sell me out to your lover,” he shouts.
I laugh darkly. “I don’t have a lover.”
“How she has the video of mine and you, but I can’t see your face?”
“I don’t fucking know! Is it that FBI bitch you’re fucking? Maybe she gave it to Elise. Maybe the one making all the noise is the one who’s really a traitor. You know how I feel about a traitor.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh. “I would never fuck the FBI.”
“How do you know Elise has that video?” I arch a brow as my side throbs and I feel liquid seeping into my pants. I’d bet money that whatever anybody has is coming straight from Aren.