Rules of Survival(62)

Patrick’s smug smile was gone. “Mick wasn’t smart enough to do it on his own—but that’s not what matters right now. Bengali is dangerous with nearly unlimited resources. We have to find a way to deal with him. Soon.”

“We?” I said, nearly choking on the words—and the idea. “What is this we shit?”

“You’ve got a target painted on the back of your head, kid. You need my help.”

“Your help? To what—push me off a cliff?” I pressed both palms flat against the surface, trying to keep calm. The shackles were showing, but I didn’t care. If I didn’t occupy my hands, I might have tested out the fighting lessons Shaun had given me. “You made my mom’s life a living hell. You’ve made my life a living hell. What makes you think I’d believe you want to help me all of a sudden?”

“Because you’ve got no other choice.”

“Cut me lose and leave me alone,” I said. “That’s a better choice than putting my trust in you.”

The waitress arrived with our food, and mopped up what little coffee hadn’t dripped onto the floor before setting the plates down. Patrick waited for her to step away before he continued. “I wouldn’t be doing you any favors, kid. Trust me.”

“That’s the point. I don’t trust you.” I glared at him. “You’re a hypocrite, Patrick. You spent all that time trying to drag my mom to the cops when you were just as guilty as she was.”

“Both of you cool it for a sec,” Shaun snapped. He glanced out across the room. Several people were staring. “If this Bengali guy is so powerful, how are we supposed to deal with that?”

“Maybe we could—”

Whatever suggestion Patrick had been about to make was interrupted by a loud, obnoxious dinging. The room erupted in shouts and panicked screams as people jumped from their chairs and began racing toward the door.

A quick scan of the room revealed Grayson Deeds standing in the corner with one hand on the fire alarm and a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. He winked and started to cut through the crowd in our direction.

“Should have seen that coming,” Shaun mumbled, pushing me behind him.

Patrick, in turn, stood and pushed Shaun behind him. “Didn’t we talk about this, Grayson?” he said as Deeds got closer.

“Really, Pat? You thought I was going to let you walk away? Just like that? That little girl is the key to my financial future. Not only is Jaffe forking over a nice chunk of change, but that kid has Bengali’s money.”

“Oops,” I said. “Yeah. I might have lied about that part…”

“Sure you did, missy. Sure you did.” Deeds never lost his smile. “And I’m the pope.”

“Not unless the pope is an oversize orange with bad breath,” Shaun said.

I couldn’t help smiling. Awesome. Shaun was seriously awesome.

Patrick stepped into the middle of the aisle. “Just walk away, Grayson. This is bigger than you realize.”

Deeds didn’t answer right away. Instead he looked from Patrick to me, smiling. “Fine. We’ll split the take.”

“There isn’t going to be a take. I’m not handing the kid in.”

Whatever Deeds was expecting Patrick to say, that wasn’t it. His eyes grew impossibly large—which made the orange tone of his skin stand out even more—and his mouth fell open. “Not handing her in? Why the hell not?”

Patrick hesitated for a moment. I didn’t know him well, but I could tell he was torn. “There is no Jaffe. It’s Bengali. He’s looking for payback for his kid’s murder.”

“Oh, wow,” Shaun said. He was staring at the television mounted on the front wall above the register.

There was a woman on-screen dressed in a navy-blue suit. Her hair was big and her skirt was incredibly short, and she was talking about a “tragic homicide.” As I was about to turn away, I noticed she was standing outside a familiar house.

Gerald’s house.

“Oh my God,” I breathed, pushing Shaun aside so I could get a better look. He reached across to the counter where the remote had been tossed by the cook in the chaos of the fire alarm, and turned up the volume.

“Witnesses say the suspect, eighteen-year-old Mikayla Morgan, was seen leaving the property after having a heated argument with the victim on his front steps. It’s unclear at this time what her relationship is—if any—to the victim.” The woman stepped to the right and the camera followed her around the house and out to the barn. “The body was found yesterday, the cause of death believed to be the gunshot wound to the chest.”

“This is not happening,” I whispered, unable to look away.

The woman on-screen continued to talk, but the picture changed. A picture of my mom—one I’d never seen before—flashed across the screen. “Mikayla Morgan is also wanted in connection to another murder. The girl’s mother, Melissa Morgan, was found dead last year under the same circumstances.”

The news channel panned back to the woman standing outside Gerald’s house, and she went on to talk about my mother’s “shady dealings,” but the sound of panic drowned her out.

They’d killed Gerald. Granted, he’d tried to hand me over to Jaffe—aka Bengali—for a nice chunk of change, but still. He would have never been in that position if we hadn’t shown up on his doorstep. And for that, he’d gotten killed.