Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(58)

She tosses the belt back onto the shelf and continues down the aisle without another word about my offer. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she calls over her shoulder, leaving the cart and heading down the hall that leads to the restrooms.

I follow and veer left, into the men’s room. A piss is a fantastic idea. I’ve had too many coffees to count, trying to stay awake after another near-sleepless night.

It’s empty inside—these places usually are. I know because I spend a lot of time in public restrooms and it’s rarely to relieve myself. They’re private locations, perfect aids for insidious acts, like the extremist who ducked into a café restroom in Paris to fix the trigger wire on his vest of C4, intent on blowing himself up during the Bastille Day parade. Bentley had sent me after him to learn about his associations, but when I realized what he was about to do, that assignment ended with a bullet in his head at an angle to make it look like suicide. I even left my gun.

Surprisingly, the media gobbled it up, pegging it as a suicide bomber with a guilty conscience, who couldn’t go through with it at the eleventh hour.

It was the only time I’ve ever defied Bentley’s orders, but he commended me for it. I saved so many lives that day, and no one will ever know except Bentley and me.

But today I’m just a normal guy, taking a leak in the Home Depot urinal.

The door creaks open behind me as I’m washing my hands. It’s just instinct for me to check my peripherals at all times when someone is entering my circumference.

The guy from the club is standing three feet away from me.

“You’re Bentley’s guy.” He’s not asking. He’s making a statement, a stupid one, because you never walk into a public place and name names.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” I move to leave the restroom but he grabs my forearm and squeezes tight.

“Then who the f*ck are you?” His Chicago accent is thick.

Someone faster and better trained than this ex-Marine.

It takes a split second for me to turn the tables, twisting out of his grip. He’s quick, though, and he takes a swing, catching the edge of my lip with his knuckle. I taste copper almost immediately.

I deliver a return hit across the jaw.

So much for being just a normal guy.

This can’t be happening in the men’s room of Home Depot, though. Any second, someone could come in, see what’s developing, and call the cops. That wouldn’t be good for me. Dragging him to the large handicap stall at the end, I shut the door before delivering a hard blow to his nose, feeling the bones and cartilage smash beneath my knuckles. “I think the right question is, Who the f*ck are you and why are you tailing me? You were told to stay away from me.” And how did he tail me? I was watching, the entire drive from Ivy’s house. At one point I thought we had someone on us, but whoever it was turned off and I dismissed it. These guys must be in more than one car. I’m an idiot.

“Fuck . . .” He grits through the pain, holding a hand up to his nose as blood pours from both his nostrils. A serious burn mark mars the skin on the back of his hand.

“Come on . . . We’re on the same team.”

“I work alone.” I may have felt a connection to him, given our common background, our shared ties, but he’s pulling this kind of shit here?

“You work for Bentley, don’t you?” he asks this time.

“Shut the f*ck up about him. Why did you break protocol to come in here?”

“You’re kidding me, right?” I cringe at his smile, his teeth coated in blood now. “The video with that bastard Royce blabbing about what happened cannot get out. The stuff he would have said . . . you get it, don’t you? Some of the things we have to do to get a job done? Would you want everyone finding out about that?”

I’m fighting against the compassion I feel for this guy. He and I are the same in that sense. I have enough skeletons in my closet to fill a cemetery. I sure as hell wouldn’t want them aired to the world for all to know.

For Ivy to know.

Fuck . . . if Ivy knew what I’ve done, why I’m even here, she’d want nothing more to do with me.

Would she?

The fact that I even care is concerning.

But there’s something about his words that is distracting me more . . . Bentley said that the video is full of bullshit, lies.

This guy’s making it sound like there’s truth there.

“Civilians don’t understand. Ricky and I will be scapegoats.” The guy leans over to spit on the ground, leaving a gob of blood and saliva next to my feet. “She’s got it. She has to have it hidden somewhere.”

“If she does, I’ll find it and return it to Bentley. But you need to leave. She’d probably make you from your voice alone.”

“That’s why I’m here. I don’t wanna leave any loose ends. You’ve obviously got an in with her. She trusts you. Maybe you and me could tag-team to get her to give up the tape and then I’ll—”

One smooth shot against his jaw cuts his words off, and his eyes roll back in his head. Just the idea of him going anywhere near Ivy makes me want to snap his thick neck and solve my loose end. It’s too risky, though. My face is all over the store’s camera feed. I wasn’t prepared for this today.

And where is this other guy—Ricky—in all this? Waiting outside or . . .