Chasing Impossible (Pushing the Limits #5)(29)

This is why I opted to see Linus—not like Linus would accept no. “What story do the police have?”

“They talked to Logan twice. Once at the scene and then right before he was about to leave the hospital. Both times he said you were on a date, he left you outside the club to get his truck, you went after him, got lost, and got caught up in some evil people’s drug wars.”

There’s an unsaid but. “I’m about to get pain meds for free thanks to the state’s insurance and your continual blabbing is holding it up.”

“You don’t like being high, plus it goes against rule number six.”

Rule number six: don’t use the drugs you sell. I sigh. I’m tired, I’m in pain, and I didn’t get red Jell-O nor a bunny. All that adds up to cranky. “Why are you here?”

“Ricky shouldn’t know there was a possible witness to your shooting yet he’s searching for the witness so he can find out who took a shot at you.”

My heart stops beating right as the blood pressure cuff tightens. “You said you were going to stay silent.”

Linus catches the ball and looks at me from the corner of his eye. “I have stayed silent. So have you and so has Logan.”

My heart starts again, but it’s at a rate that’s too entirely fast. “Which means the shooter is talking and he knows there was a witness.” My mind trips over itself as I attempt to force my brain cells to work again. “I was shot hours ago.”

“Street gossip doesn’t move this fast from Eric’s camp to Ricky’s. We either have someone with ties too close to Eric’s people or this was an inside hit.”

Nausea crawls up my throat. “Which one was it?”

“If we’ve got a traitor in our ranks and your boy is a witness to things they didn’t want anyone to see Logan can help me.”

“Help you?” I shout. “When did this become about you?”

“It’s always about me. My instincts have been telling me that we have a spy in our ranks for a while, but I could never sniff out who. If your boy saw the shooter, then maybe I can link back your shooter to whoever is causing problems for us.”

I blink, repeatedly. “I don’t want Logan involved in our world.”

Like always, he ignores me. “Two of my guys will be posted in the hospital, watching your back while you’re here. I’ve bought myself twenty-four hours until I meet Ricky face-to-face and I owe you for saving my ass last year. You’ve got that much time to figure out what story I’m telling him involving your boy. Any way you look at it, he’s falling down the rabbit hole. Just up to you how far.”

And if he gets killed. Great. No pressure. None at all.

Logan

We play. Abby and I play.

She’s a drug dealer. She’s chosen her path and she’s asked me to fill in and make sure a deal is done. Sure sounds like it. An address. A hidden envelope. A specific drop time. Bet she asked me to do this because I’m crazy.

In the end, I don’t know her, she doesn’t know me, yet I’m here. Because I need a release from this itch under my skin...because I think of her—often. More than I want. More than I should. Maybe I like her because I’m insane.

That sounds like me.

The house wasn’t what I expected. It’s in an older part of Louisville. Built easily over a hundred years ago. Small. Stone. Like a cottage, but stuck in a neighborhood. It has a cement porch that’s covered by a roof. A swing is off to the right. Colorful wind chimes clank together in the summer breeze. Flowers are planted along the shrubs and are in flower boxes attached to the railing. The front yard is full of green grass. No weeds. Nicely manicured.

The front steps are covered by a wooden ramp. The kind Dad built for his father when he broke his hip. The place definitely screams drug den.

The clock on the truck’s radio flips to 2:45. I crack open the door and cross the street. Farther down, a car passes an intersection, but other than that, there couldn’t be a quieter place. Birds and boring. Almost like being back home.

I’m fast as I move to the back and in the backyard a red birdhouse hangs from a branch heavy with apples. Along with leaves, sticks and shed feathers, there’s a key and that key fits in the back door. It clicks open and the scent of chicken drifts into my nose. My stomach grumbles and I want to kick myself for missing a meal, but I was caught up in driving. Caught up in figuring out Abby.

I enter a kitchen and it’s yellow—almost orange. It’s cozy. Maybe three people could fit in it. There’s a stove, a sink, not even a dishwasher. The refrigerator’s covered in pictures and most of them are of a young girl and as I step closer, my eyes narrow. The girl has long brown hair, a glint in her eye and a devilish grin. Holy hell—is that Abby?

“Can I help you?”

I spin, and a black woman with long curly hair pulled back at the nape of her neck walks in. She assesses me like she’s not sure whether to welcome me or try to put me in a sleeper hold.

“Abby sent me,” I say.

She eyes me warily then places a tray of half-eaten food on the counter. “Abby’s usually here by now. Is she delayed?”

“You can say that.” I glance out the back door and wonder if I should bolt. This lady is too calm. This situation too weird. “I need to go upstairs.”