4

Jumaine

Throughout the entire time I'd been nursing Slade, I'd been bracing myself for Rocello's reaction to the plan. There was one question I dreaded, hoping he wouldn't bring it up.

But he did.

We'd all heard stories of mobsters turning up in the most unexpected places, thousands of miles away from the United States. Some had fled to India or Japan to escape their pursuers. It all hinged on their caution and how well they covered their tracks. Yet, inevitably, many of these unfortunate souls slipped up, sealing their own fates. Their bodies would be discovered in pools of blood.

In our line of work, betrayal was met with swift and merciless retribution. Crossing a powerful Don was a death sentence, executed quickly and brutally. A bullet to the head followed by several more to the face—cruel measures intended to ensure no open-casket funeral for the deceased, intensifying the horror for their loved ones.

Not that we had much family concern ourselves. All three of us were products of New York's harsh foster care system. We had only each other, but that was enough.

I was relieved when Rocello took charge of the plan. As expected, he insisted on reconnaissance. That was his strength. Slade was good with ideas—and tequila—but Rocello was the strategist. I assisted by researching and analyzing, but Rocello made the decisions.

The following night, we drove to North Haven in my ancient, rust-riddled clunker. The engine rattled like a fourth passenger throughout the journey, especially when I pushed it a bit too hard.

"Is that thing gonna blow up?" Slade asked nervously, as the car jolted over a pothole.

I shot him a glare through the rearview mirror. "I preferred you when you were drunk."

“Look at that,” Rocello’s remark had me look across the street. He was pointing at a huge estate. Surrounded by stone walls, it featured an arched entryway with an iron gate like the fucking drawbridge of a castle. Beyond the gate, a sleek black Lamborghini was facing the street. “I’m telling you, guys. If I don’t like the bank set-up, I’m going to break into one of these mansions and empty the motherfucker.”

“Trust me, you will,” I said with a smile. “Besides, I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to shoot some poor security guard to get away with a Ming vase and a fancy espresso machine.” Growing up in the foster care system had given us all a healthy disregard for rich assholes. Sure, they gave to charity once a year, but other than that, they were pretty useless.

“You and I both,” he maintained, as we watched a red Ferrari belting down the street in the opposite direction.

Slade whistled at the supercar. “Goddamn. I’ve got to get me one of those.” He’d been in love with expensive cars since he was a boy.

I sighed, taking the last left turn. I had to admit that I’d had a few daydreams about the money, too. Slade was just the only one who’d said out loud what he wanted to do with his money.

“There she is.” I pointed at the Palmer’s Savings and Loan up ahead on the left side of the street. I pulled over and switched off the lights and the engine, my eyes on the blue sign over the entrance.

“Three ways in and out,” Rocello confirmed, squinting at the bank. It was on the corner with free access from either side of the intersection. “That’s good. Are we sure your friend can take out the alarm system?”

“He can do it, Rocello,” Slade replied, his tone low as I spotted an oncoming van in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know tech stuff, but he showed me some of the jobs he’s pulled, and I got a good bullshit meter. He’s been a hacker for years.”

I was only half listening as I watched the white van approach. The rumble of its engine made Slade whip his head around to check it out. It pulled up right behind us with its headlights still on. The driver jumping out, making tension tighten the back of my neck. I shoved my head through my open window and looked back as he flipped around. He had white, spiky hair and was about 5’6”. Adrenaline flooded me as I recognized the son of a bitch.

“Down!” I shouted and I crouched down in the driver’s seat as best I could. A moment later, a tremendous blast rocked the car, the street, and possibly the whole damn state. The white van behind us had exploded and the back window of my car exploded inward, shards of glass flying everywhere.

The noise from the blast was deafening, so it took my ringing ears a moment to realize that a dozen car alarms had gone off, as well as an ear-splitting one from the bank itself.

“We have to get out of here.” Slade’s voice broke through the clamor. “Can you drive?”

Shaking off glass shards, I nodded. My hands were bleeding, but I could grip the steering wheel. The side mirror was missing, but I pulled out into the street, tearing recklessly through the intersection. “You guys okay?” I called out, my ears still ringing.

“Yeah,” Slade spat. He’d been closer to the blast than us, but he’d had more room to duck behind the protection of the back seat. “What about Rock?”

My heart sank as I looked over at the passenger seat. My friend had been thrown forward, his face resting on top of the dashboard. Shards of glass were lying around his head. A larger chunk had been lodged into the side of his neck. Blood was spilled out, disappearing under the collar of his white shirt.

“Rocello!” I shoved his shoulder, panic filled me.

His groan was barely audible, but at least it reassured me that he was alive.

Slade leaned forward, cussing as shards of glass cut his hands. “Rock, can you hear me?”

There was another groan.

“Fuck!” Slade said. “What the hell happened?”

To my surprise, it was Rock who answered. “Ambush,” he said weakly. He pushed himself away from the dashboard.

“Easy,” Slade cautioned, reaching forward to guide Rocello back into his seat. “What the fuck do I do about the glass?”

“Just pull it out,” Rocello said with a groan.

“Don’t!” I warned.

Fortunately, Slade was in his right mind today. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, man.”

“We should get him to a hospital,” I said.

“No,” Rocello said, his voice stronger. “The police have to be on their way. Just get us out of here.”

Yeah. That was a good plan—or it would’ve been if he hadn’t been actively bleeding. He’d banged his head, too. Not sure if this ancient car still even had airbags, but they sure as hell hadn’t deployed.

"We'll drive a few towns over and find someone to patch you up," Slade reassured Rocello, his hand firm on Rocello's shoulder to keep him steady. "There's no way we're taking you back to your family in a body bag."

"Damn, this hurts like hell," Rocello admitted through gritted teeth.

I made a turn, my concern for Rocello making me slow down. People had spilled out of their houses, craning their necks toward the explosion's origin. If I drove cautiously, maybe they'd assume we were just caught in the blast, not the intended targets.

Slade noticed the curious onlookers too. "Shit," he muttered under his breath.

We needed a safe place to get Rocello treated, but where?

The porch light was on at the house down the street. Two women stood on the front porch, their eyes fixed on the commotion behind us. Without thinking, I turned the corner and parked in the shadow of a side yard, away from the streetlights.

"What the hell are you doing?" Rocello groaned.

"Getting you some help," I replied firmly, turning to Slade. "Let's get him out of here."

Glass shards cascaded out of my car as I swung the door open. Slade was already assisting Rocello out of the vehicle by the time I reached them. Together, we half-dragged, half-carried the wounded man into the yard.

“What the hell?” The voice that carried across the yard was full of shock and surprise, but also something deeper beyond recognition.

Though I’d only caught the briefest of glimpses of her before, I’d known deep inside who it was.

Margo Owens. She was miles from the bar at the Rusty Bucket, and she was the last person I expected to see out here, but somehow, it was her. A blonde followed in her wake.

“Rock’s been hurt,” I said, groaning a bit with the wait of supporting him.

“There’s a hospital on the other side of—” the blonde began, but Margo put her hand on her arm, stopping her.

“I know these guys,” she said. Then she motioned to us. “Come inside.”

The blonde didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t stay anything as we limped past.

Slade immediately shut the door behind us once we were all inside of a small, old-fashioned living room.

“Bring him in the kitchen,” the blonde said, not sounding happy about it.

“She’s a nurse,” Margo said as her friend disappeared further into the house. “What are you guys doing out here?”

“Bleeding,” Slade said sharply, and Margo’s eyes were full of concern as she gazed at Rock.

“It wasn’t those guys from last night, was it?”

Rocello scoffed, which immediately made me feel better. He wouldn’t care about wounding pride if he were at death’s door.

Or, well, this was Rock. Maybe he would.

We carried him into the kitchen, a room covered in floral wallpaper. Margo pulled out a chair at an ancient Formica table.

The blonde came back in as we got Rock settled. She frowned as she looked at the shard of glass in his neck. “At least it didn’t hit the carotid artery.”

“How can you tell?” I asked. The woman was taller than Margo and had a mane of dark blonde hair that spilled around her shoulders.

“Because he’s alive.”

Oh. Shit. I was torn between relief that it wasn’t worse but also shaken by how close I’d come to losing my friend.

“What can I do, Piper?” Margo asked her friend.

The nurse, Piper, was still examining the shard in Rocello’s neck. “Get some rags and wash his arm. Then find a tweezer, sterilize it, and pull out some of those little fragments.”

Margo’s face turned paler which made her dark eyebrows and lashes look even darker. “I’ll do it,” I said. “You just get me the stuff.”

She gulped and nodded, hurrying off. It was almost funny. Rock said she’d pulled a shotgun on those assholes last night, but apparently, she didn’t do well with blood.

Piper seemed to know what she was doing as we worked on Rock. After a while, she pulled her eyes away from her patient and spared me a glance. “You should get cleaned up, too.” I looked down. My left arm was covered in blood as was Rock’s right arm. There was a foot of space between the two front seats, and it hadn’t offered much protection. Slade had some glass in his hair, but he looked mostly unscathed. He stood behind Rock with his hands on his back, holding him still while Piper worked on his wound.

Jesus. He could’ve been killed.

“Jumaine?” Margo’s voice cut through the chaos in my mind. “I’ll show you where the bathroom is so you can get cleaned up.”

I followed her down the hall, still bemused to see her here. I’d never seen her outside of the Rusty Bucket, let alone so far from the city. What she was doing here in a house that looked like it was owned by someone’s great-grandmother was beyond me.

The bathroom was tiny, but Margo didn’t take up much room. The bartender couldn’t have been more than 5’5”, and I could see the top of her glossy black hair as she adjusted the water temperature at the sink.

My hands stung as I washed them, but it felt good to get the blood off. Margo picked up a hand towel and wet it, using it to clean spots on my arm. Her body was warm, and I got a whiff of some kind of floral scent. It smelled good.

“What happened out there?” she asked quietly, causing me to do some quick thinking.

“There was some kind of blast,” I said. “We were caught in it.” Involuntarily, the image of the man I’d seen in the van behind me flashed across my mind. Sean Baxter, that cowardly motherfucker.

He’d pay.

Margo was studying my face, and I wondered if my expression had shown my thoughts. She bit her lip, as if biting back questions she wanted to ask. She wasn’t part of the dark world the three of us inhabited, but she was from the neighborhood and knew better than to ask too many questions.

She was silent as she helped me, fishing a few small shards out of my skin. Her touch was light, only occasionally making me wince. And I nearly smiled as I heard three voices drift toward us from the kitchen. Rocello’s sounded stronger than before.

The last thing I wanted to do was to cause trouble for Margo and her nurse friend, but at the moment, I felt nothing but gratitude for the pretty young woman next to me. She had a level head and a gentle touch. Hopefully the nurse who was helping Rocello did as well.