I sigh, falling back in my chair heavily to demonstrate just how fucking tired I am of his egotistical shit. “Higham, if you could arrest either of us, we’d already be in cuffs.”

  “You’d be a big catch for me.”

  “Are we back talking about sharks again, Higham?” James asks, making me frown.

  “What about sharks?” I ask.

  “Higham likes to fry big fish.”

  “You don’t get much bigger than us.” I smile at an exasperated Agent Higham.

  “Indeed you don’t, but as I have explained to James before you arrived back in Miami, as much as I know you two have more murders to your names than the inmates of Florida State Prison put together, there are either no bodies or no evidence.”

  “Oh, I see.” I look at James. “Do you see?”

  “I see.”

  “We see,” I confirm, facing Higham, who looks like he’s about ready to bash our heads together. I chuckle to myself, peeking out the corner of my eye to James. His face is dead straight, but I can see he’s getting a bit of light relief with me. “So, for the avoidance of doubt,” I go on. “Are you saying that in order to cuff us, you need some dead bodies or evidence to prove James and I may or may not have killed a few men?”

  “Yes.”

  “And while we’re pretty big fucking fish, probably the biggest, you accept you will never get us in those cuffs?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you accept that our supposed crimes—because they are supposed, Higham, let’s be clear on that—are a direct result of the other scum roaming the streets of Miami trying to rule it, and if they were not around, you accept the crime rates would, as everyone wants, including us, drop significantly?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the FBI and MPD will ease the squeeze around our necks if we intercept a few supposed murders and hand the culprit over to you to prosecute?”

  “I suppose that is indeed what I am saying.”

  I slap the table with my palm, smiling. “Why didn’t you just say so?” I fall back in my chair. “I feel like we’ve been around the houses a bit, Higham.”

  Exasperated, he stands, picking up his coffee as he does and finishing it. “If there was ever an award for most sarcastic crime lord, Danny, you’d get it.”

  “I’d rather win the award for most dangerous, actually.”

  “Fight you for it,” James practically growls beside me. “And I’ll win.”

  “We’ll see,” I reply, smiling at Higham. “I’ll let you know how this pans out.”

  “And my offer?”

  “We’ll think about it.”

  “Maybe this will sway you.” He pushes a picture across the table, and James and I both lean in to look. “We believe this may be The Chameleon.”

  I frown. “The Chameleon? I’ve never heard of The fucking Chameleon.”

  “Now you have. Polish. Replaced The Hound, who I now suspect was in the vehicle that blew up after James was released from custody after being wrongly arrested for Frank Spittle’s death. The Chameleon works under The Shark.” Higham pushes another picture toward us. “And this here, we believe, is The Leprechaun.”

  “Don’t tell me.” James places a fingertip on the picture and drags it forward. “Irish.”

  “Good guess,” I mutter.

  “Replaced The Alligator, Roake, who replaced The Snake.”

  James looks up at Higham. “Where did you get this information?”

  “Well, while you two were slacking on vacation, I used the time productively.”

  “But you didn’t find The Bear and you don’t know who dug up my dead father?” I say.

  Higham doesn’t look impressed. “I’ll keep the Feds and MPD out of Hiatus until you’ve had a chat between yourselves about where our relationship goes next.” He smiles smugly and it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. Everything about Hiatus is legit . . . until you get to the glass office, and they won’t find that. They won’t find anything, except a few naked women. I pout to myself. Bless Higham’s cotton socks. Thirty feet beneath him is an underground gun store bigger than this café. Granted, not fully stocked right now, but still.

  “Very kind of you,” I say, my eyes following him as he struts away, his walk screaming cop.

  “Oh.” He stops just shy of the door, his index finger pointing skyward, as if he’s just had a lightbulb moment. That award he’s talking about? If there was one for cops . . . “I nearly forgot,” he muses, turning back to face us. Liar. He didn’t nearly forget at all. This will simply be another little nudge. Higham needs to know I don’t like nudges. “Heard of a man named Kenny Spittle?”

  “Nope.”

  “Thought not.” A sarcastic smile, and he’s gone.

  “Still don’t like him,” I mutter, turning to James. “What are you thinking?” Ironically, Higham gave us these two pictures as a sweetener. He’s happy for us to kill these men, because he knows their deaths will lead to a bigger catch. Problem is, he wants The Bear, and so do we.

  “I’m thinking he’s trying to make the same arrangement with me as Beau’s mother did.” James stares at the pictures on the table, his eyes narrowed to slits, his lip getting a punishing chew. “I killed them before she got them in front of a judge.”

  If James and I were women, I’d be giving his hand a reassuring rub about now. “Difference is,” I say, thoughtful. “Higham knows who we are. Jaz Hayley—”

  “Knew who I was,” James reminds me, also reminding me that Beau’s mother also knew who The Bear was. Jesus, this story, the connections, the mysteries.

  “I can’t die until we figure this out,” I say, swiping up my cigarettes and lighting one, offering them to James. He takes one. I knew he would. I draw and exhale thoughtfully. What I really meant is, I can’t live until we figure this out.

  None of us can.

  Which means we need to do what it takes to figure this shit out. “Are we putting Kenny back in the bank?”

  “I’ll have Goldie arrange his sunbeds,” James says, relaxing back too, looking out at the cove. “I’m not interested in helping Higham hit government targets.” He takes us back to business and away from Beau. Fair enough.

  “Me neither, but I am interested in making our lives as easy as possible.” I stub my barely-smoked cigarette out. “Ready to head to Hiatus?” I ask, looking at his phone on the table when it rings. “Beth? Who’s Beth?”

  James makes a pretty speedy job of rejecting the call. “No one.” Standing, he strides back to the changing room, and I follow, my eyes lasers on his brutalized back. He yanks his locker open and pulls his clothes out, stripping out of his wetsuit. James is never particularly light and breezy, it’s not in his DNA, but he’s especially deadly looking right now, as he wrenches and pulls at his clothes. Even when he’s quite funny, there’s still an edge of deadliness laced through his words.

  No one.

  Interesting.

  * * *

  By the time we get to Hiatus, the place is booming, the bar packed, and the stage is adorned with five sets of boobs, all different shapes and sizes.

  “Don’t ever let it be said that Hiatus doesn’t cater for all tastes,” Brad says, motioning to the office, obviously knowing what I’m thinking. “Somewhere quieter?”

  Yes, my head’s fucking ringing. I wander across the club, acutely aware of the hushed whispers, people staring but trying not to stare. The Brit is back. A-fucking-gain. And this time, he really isn’t going anywhere. I walk through the staged office, open the bookcase, and look back to make sure everyone’s in the holding room before punching in the code on the wall mounted panel that releases the iron door on the other side of the room. It creeps open, I pass through, climb the stairs, and find Otto, Ringo, and Goldie huddled around a laptop. “Something going on?” I ask.

  “Just checking The Chameleon and The Leprechaun against facial recognition,” Otto says, not looking up. He’s wearing a baseball cap. Otto hit his head. How?

  “Who?” Brad asks, closing the door behind him.

  “How do you know about The Chameleon and The Leprechaun?”

  “Who’s The Chameleon and The Leprechaun?” Brad pours himself a drink.

  “James sent me the images.” Otto remains devoted to the screen of his laptop.

  “What images?” Brad asks.

  “Very prompt of him,” I mutter, giving James the eye as I help myself to a Scotch too. “Vodka?”

  He shakes his head. “And you’ve found nothing,” James says, joining them and taking a peek.

  “Actually . . .” Otto fades off, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

  “Actually what?”

  “Where’s the original image?” he asks, looking between me and James. I point my drink to James, who dips into his back pocket and pulls out the pictures, handing them to Otto, who’s accepts while stroking his beard with his other hand, concentrating.

  “Who the fuck is The Chameleon and The Leprechaun?” Brad yells.

  “Two new members of The Bear’s zoo,” I answer. “Polish and Irish. Replacing Roake and The Hound.”

  “Great. What the fuck is this, a breeding program?” Brad swigs his drink and refills, while I return my attention to Otto, wondering what the fuck he’s looking at in that picture with such interest.

  “Are you going to enlighten us?” I ask, impatient.

  “I see it,” James takes the picture from Otto and unbends his body.

  For fuck’s sake. “Well?” I press.

  “There’s a reflection on his shades.” James squints and looks closer. “Part of a neon bar sign.”

  “Which one?” I ask.

  “Irish.”

  Everyone, including me, crowds James, trying to get in on the picture. I see the glimmer of pink lighting, squinting too. “Don’t tell me the FBI missed that.” Ringo grunts, his fat nose wrinkling. “It’s obviously the Pink Flamingo Lounge Bar Downtown.”

  “They didn’t miss it.” I move away and sip my drink, going to the window and looking down on the busy club. “These two men are a gift.”

  “What?” Brad asks, confused.

  “Higham wants The Bear. He knows we’re the best way to achieve that, whether he uses us as bait or our skills as hunters.” I pout at the window. “Drive everyone else out of town so there is only us, and we bob along quite nicely on our own, don’t we?” I face the room. “I can’t deny it, it would be quite peaceful with only us.”

  Brad laughs. “Are you joking? We’re like magnets for the rookie crime lords. And the non-rookie ones, for that matter. Russians, Polish, and Irish case in point. And is everyone forgetting Beau’s dad is running for mayor? That prick is not going to make our lives easy as long as he”—he points a finger at James—“is dating his precious daughter.”

  “Precious?” James coughs, on the verge of knocking Brad out. “She wasn’t so precious when he left her in a hospital.”

  I step in before all hell breaks loose. Or, at least, I delay it. “Who’s running against him?” I ask.

  “Monroe Metcalfe,” Otto answers. How the fuck does he have the answer to everything? And what the fuck is with that baseball cap? It doesn’t suit him. “Lawyer.,” he continues. “Moved in from Boston in 2020. Wife, two daughters, and a shining reputation. Charity work, upstanding citizen, pro-bono work.”

  “He’s definitely bent,” I say, making James look up at me. “No one that glowing is that straight. Dig deeper. See if he’d be open to discussions.”

  “You want to talk?” Ringo asks. “What about?”

  “Whether I need to threaten him or if he’ll play nice and take a bribe.” It looks like I’m going back into politics. “People will be more reluctant to step foot in Miami once we’re shot of The Bear and his zoo. Anyone steps in, Higham gets them. And we get to live happily ever after.”

  Every single person in the room snorts their thoughts on that. We’ll never live in complete peace. But it’s the closest we’ll ever get, and they all know it.

  “Are you saying we’re giving Higham The Bear?” James asks, his tone unimpressed.

  “Yeah, I’m saying that. Got a better idea?” I ask, raising my brows.

  He doesn’t get to answer, his phone ringing and interrupting. Beth again? And who the fuck is Beth? “I’ve got to take this,” he mutters but, surprisingly, he doesn’t leave the room, instead pacing in front of the glass.

  “So what are we doing with this?” Goldie asks, picking up the picture and inspecting it. “Paying a visit to The Pink Flamingo?”

  “You craving some girlie cocktails?” Ringo asks, earning a death glare. “Sex on the Beach?”

  “How about a Screwdriver?” Goldie counters, her lip curled. “Plunged into your eye.”

  Ringo’s face drops like lead. “I was playing.”

  “I don’t play,” she mutters, slamming her body down on the couch and raking a stressed hand through her hair. She’s pissed. I get it. Freedom was a whisper away and now due to loyalty, she’s going nowhere. As soon as we’ve dealt with this shit, she’ll be gone, and she will go with James’s and my blessing.

  “You want some time out?” I ask her, earning myself a death glare too.

  “Why the fuck would I want time out? I want to get on with this shit and get the job done.”

  I nod. I like her attitude. Sometimes.

  “The lobby bar. Half an hour.” James hangs up and faces the room, therefore my curious face. Which he ignores. “Are we done?” he asks.

  “No, I want—” My phone rings, and as soon as I see who’s calling, I hold it up to James before answering. “Chaka,” I say, telling everyone else in the room who it is as I click to loudspeaker. “How’s my favorite king of Africa?”

  “Black,” he says over what I know is a small laugh. “You woo me.”

  “You’re not calling with a problem, are you, Chaka?”

  “No problem. Just checking the finer details for the delivery.”

  “Details to come,” I say dismissively. “Now, let me ask you something, Chaka, my friend.” I perch on the edge of Brad’s desk and cross one ankle over the other, hearing the building threat in my own voice. “And only the truth will do here, or that peaceful community of yours in that beautiful village far, far away from civilization might be blessed with a firework display very soon.”

  “I thought we were friends, Black.”

  “We are, which is why it pains me to threaten you.”

  “You’re in pain?”

  “Agony. Now, tell me,” I go on, bracing myself for the imminent exploding of myself, the anger brewing dangerously. I swear, whoever’s been shouting their mouth off, I will cut them up. Slowly. With a blunt knife. “How the fuck do you know my wife is pregnant?”

  “Because you told me.”

  I jerk. Frown. Cast my eyes around the room. “What?”

  His laugh is deep and rumbling. And really fucking irritating. “When you called me a few nights ago from St. Lucia as drunk as I’ve ever heard a man.”

  “Oh.”

  Brad starts laughing, as does Ringo and Otto, and Goldie rolls her eyes, blowing her cheeks out in despair. And James. He’s expressionless. Deadpan. Seriously unimpressed.

  “I guess I told you I was in St. Lucia too, huh?” Fuck my life. Fuck my stupidity. Fuck everything.

  “Sure did. Now, are we done?”

  “We’re done.” I am not living this down.

  “Back to business,” Chaka says.

  “I said I’d send you the details.”

  He’s laughing again. “I’m talking about the other shipment.”

  “What other shipment?” I ask, feeling all attention on me.

  “The one you ordered that night after telling me you’d slice off my black balls and feed them to the hyenas if I didn’t fulfil it.”

  “Oh,” I murmur again, as James shakes his head at me and the rest of the gang look at me like they feel sorry for me. They should. I’m feeling quite sorry for myself too. “That order.” I have no fucking idea what he’s talking about. “Don’t suppose I can cancel it?”

  “Oh, Black, can I suggest a vacation?”

  “I’ll be in touch.” I hang up and uncross my legs, standing. Fuck it. “We have a second shipment coming.”

  “No shit,” Ringo grunts.

  I have a weird moment, a flashback, my mind taking me back to that night on the beach after we found out we hadn’t killed The Bear and my wife lost her shit, basically throwing me out. I see myself, slumped on the sand, a bottle in my hand, my mobile at my ear. And I hear part of the conversation.

  I want to double the order. You can deliver, can’t you, Chaka?

  Otto coughs, knocking me from my thoughts. “And do we know how we’re taking this delivery yet?”

  I glare at him, silently telling him to fuck off before I fuck him up.

  James heads for the door. “I need to be somewhere.”

  “You look like you’re in a rush.”

  “I am.”

  “We have the delivery to coordinate,” I call. “It was you who had this bright idea to keep the delivery to a Friday when the Coast Guard is training.”

  “Just trying to keep all the criminals happy while staying alive,” James mutters, not stopping.

  “Where are you going?” I yell.

  “None of your business.”

  I recoil, throwing a curious look to Otto, who shrugs, and to Goldie, who is still scowling. Am I the only one wondering what the fuck he’s up to?

  12

  ROSE

  “Fuck it all to hell!” I mutter, staring at the bush that now has a hole in it the shape of Dolly’s hood. “Beau, I’m so sorry.” I turn to my friend, praying for forgiveness—fuck the bush. This car is sentimental. A hunk of junk but so sentimental.

  Beau’s just staring at the car, and my heart sinks, as I reluctantly turn my eyes onto the paintwork to look at the damage. Oh God. Scratches. Everywhere. “I’ll pay for it to be fixed,” I tell her, ignoring the little part of my brain that’s asking me how the hell I’m going to do that without having to ask my husband for some cash. And I have a horrible realization in this moment. Awful! I have no money, not of my own. Everything has been signed over to me, yes, but I can’t get at it. I didn’t earn any of it. Work for it. God damn it, I’m still a prisoner. He controls me. All of me.