Fucking hell. “We’ll find her.”

  He lets out a sardonic, exhausted burst of laughter, just as the sound of an engine drifts in from the open window. James freezes, as do I, listening, then we both face Ringo and Otto, who we find are patting down their pockets. Both pull out their keys and hold them up, but I don’t feel any relief. I move my stare onto James as he inhales sharply and goes to his pocket, feeling around. “No,” he whispers, his eyes darting to the window, the sound of a car pulling away at some speed filling our ears. A car that sounded scarily similar to James’s Range Rover.

  “She’s not seriously dipped your fucking pockets?” I ask. “When the fuck did she do that?” I would never say that I have ever underestimated Beau Hayley. Until now.

  James is gone again, darting out of the door, everyone following, but we all slow to a stop when he breaks out into the carpark and his run turns into a sprint. I have no fucking clue where he’s got the fuel from. My face contorts in pain, my head pounding, and the vest that’s done a fine fucking job of keeping me alive today, from my wife’s fucking best friend, suddenly feels tighter. I shrug my coat off and remove it from my body, opening my shirt and wincing at the tidy bullet hole-shaped bruise nestled amid the healing slashes. “Motherfucker,” I breathe, looking up to James’s body getting smaller and smaller. Adrenaline. He’s like the fucking Terminator.

  But then his Range Rover screeches around the corner onto the main street, and his pace slows until he’s standing motionless in the middle of the road.

  “Who the hell shot you?” Goldie asks, coming to me, inspecting my wound.

  “Beau.” I rebutton my shirt and pull my coat back on, leaving the now useless vest on the ground.

  “Beau shot you?” Ringo asks, once again looking at the others, checking to see if they heard the same as him.

  “Oh, I’m not taking it personally.” I laugh, throwing my head back, feeling slightly demented. “She didn’t just shoot me; she shot her fiancé too.” I kick the vest away and pull out my smokes, lighting one and dragging in the nicotine, praying it’ll calm me. “Her dad left everything to his ex-girlfriend.”

  “Amber?” Ringo asks, stunned.

  Another puff as I nod. “Yes. She was seen nearby at the funeral. Looked like she was trying to conceal herself.”

  “Why would she be there?”

  Good fucking question. And why the fuck has she been calling me? I need to see you. “Higham was at the funeral too.” I go on. “You may have seen.” Another drag of my Marlboro. “Didn’t speak, but perhaps that’s because he’s worried we’re onto him and his little coffee dates with that journalist Natalia Potter. We also had a debut appearance from Collins. Weird-looking woman. The kind with a face you instantly want to punch.”

  “Can you actually say that about a woman?” Fury asks.

  God bless my soul. “Yes, I fucking can.” Especially when the woman in question is a fucking cop on our backs. “Along with Amber, Higham, and Collins, we also had Burrows.” Another long drag. I blow out the smoke to the sky. “He’s got a new woman. One that happens to be an attorney.” I wave my cigarette, thinking, thinking, thinking. “Jolene something. She knows every step he’s taken since he’s been off work.”

  “That’s handy,” Otto grunts, getting his laptop out of the car and placing it on the roof of the Mercedes, starting to tap at the keys. “She’s turned the fucking tracker off on the Range Rover.” He slams the lid shut and rests his head on the roof. “That fucking woman.”

  “Beau knows Cartwright’s dead,” I go on, “and now thinks Amber killed her dad for the inheritance and possibly Cartwright too.” I finish on a megawatt smile. “Oh, and we still don’t know WHO THE FUCKING BEAR IS!” I launch my fist into the window of the Mercedes, and the fucker resists, making it bounce back off. “Fuck!” The sound of my phone ringing saves the window from another attempt, and I shake my bastard fist as I slip my Marlboro between my lips and answer. “Hey, baby.”

  “What’s happened?” Rose asks, as calm as could be.

  “Nothing’s happened, my darling. I’ll be home for dinner. And I’ll need a hot soak in the bath.” I bravely hang up. I’ll be paying for it. But . . . fuck me.

  “I suggest someone finds Amber before Beau does,” James says, out of breath as he stalks past us to Otto, holding his hand out for the keys to his car. “Or pray I find Beau first.”

  “She killed the tracker.”

  James laughs. It’s as demented as I feel. “Of course she fucking did!” He gets in, starts the engine, and pulls off fast before Otto’s put one foot in front of the other to join him. The car screeches off, and Otto’s laptop leaves the roof and flies across the carpark, smashing into a few million pieces when it hits the concrete. And Otto just stares at it. Stares and breathes deeply for a few minutes while we all watch him fighting to keep his cool. I have to hand it to him, he's doing a far better job of that than me or James.

  Eventually, he collects up just one piece from the scattered remains of his laptop—the motherboard, no doubt—and faces us. “I need a lift home.”

  “I’ll drop you at the gates.” Because if I step foot on the grounds of our house, Rose will be on me like a wolf and leaving again will likely cause World War III. I go to the remaining car and get behind the wheel.

  “Where are you going?” Ringo asks, his crabby old face screwed up as if I’ve already answered that question and he doesn’t approve.

  “To find any number of people who need to be found.” I start the car. “Brad, Amber, The Bear. Take your pick.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Goldie declares as they all pile in the back.

  “And me,” Ringo mutters.

  “Can we stop off at Best Buy?” Otto asks as he slips onto the passenger seat, looking at me for an answer. He’s serious. He’s fucking serious.

  “No, we can’t fucking stop at fucking Best Buy,” I yell, starting the car and slamming it into drive, screeching off.

  * * *

  I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as I wait in the carpark outside Best Buy, my thoughts twisted, my brain hurting, and not because it’s had a belter of a whack. There’s just so fucking much to unravel, the web thick, dense, and fucking massive. Yet all that remains of The Bear’s network is Sandy and Volodya. Two Russians, one of which wants to work with us. I pout at the windscreen, my eyes narrowing. If Burrows was taking leave from work to eliminate the risk of Collins thinking he’s working for us, he could also be taking leave because we suspect him of being The Bear’s inside man. He could be out of the game. Or trying to be. Washing his hands of The Bear. Hence, the animals, or what’s left of them, scattering. But if he did that, surely he would be dead by now because not in any criminal lord’s world would they let their mole crawl away. Perhaps that’s why he’s been in hiding. Fuck me. I text James my contemplations, not that I expect them to sink into his brain right now. My conclusions also won’t improve his mood but, let’s face it, it couldn’t get any fucking worse.

  I’m typing away but lose my screen when Rose tries calling me. “Forgive me,” I murmur, rejecting her call and carrying on with my message. She calls again. “Not now, Rose,” I say quietly, hitting the red, forbidden button and continuing with my message. It rings again. “I’ll call you back, I promise,” I say, rejecting her once again and getting back to my message to James.

  Ring!

  “For fuck’s sake!” I answer. “I’m trying to write a long-arse fucking message, Rose, and you keep interrupting me.” I hang up, my thumbs working at an epic speed to get done before she calls me again. Because she will. I finish, click send, and exhale, relaxing back in my seat, exhausted, feeling like I’ve just run a grueling army assault course. I dial Rose. “Baby,” I say when she answers.

  “Baby to you too,” she replies sweetly, definitely through gritted teeth. “A little tip if you wish to remain married.”

  “What’s that, sweetheart?”

  “Answer my fucking calls.”

  “I was dealing with something important.” I cringe the moment the words fall out of my mouth and catch Ringo, Fury, and Goldie in the rearview mirror shaking their heads at their phones. If the situation wasn’t so dire, the sight of them would be laughable, their bodies wedged in the back, their shoulders all up by their ears. “I didn’t mean more important than you.” Fucking hell. “Rose, baby, you won’t believe the day I’ve had.”

  “What’s happened?” she asks, her voice softening.

  “Beau’s dad’s attorney showed up at the funeral, along with many other friendly faces.”

  “Like who?”

  “Her ex. He’s moved a new woman in.”

  “Into their apartment? That’s a bit insensitive.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. She shared that place with Ollie. Imagine if you and I split up and I kept the house. How would you feel if I moved another man in?”

  I look at the roof of the car. Why? Why does she say shit like that? I bite my tongue because it won’t do me any favors biting her head off. “It’s not Beau’s apartment anymore. She has an apartment with James.” Oh fuck. My eyes widen at the mirror and the three sets in the back shoot to me.

  “What?” Rose asks.

  “Or they had an apartment before it was blown up.” I cringe.

  “No, James had an apartment. It wasn’t Beau’s. She wanted to buy an apartment on her own and James showed up at the viewing and basically told her it wasn’t happening.”

  Why doesn’t that surprise me? “Any—”

  “That’s not all he did either,” she continues. I can hear the smile in her voice. “So are you telling me James has bought an apartment?”

  Fuck it. “No, stop putting words in my mouth.” My sore head bangs harder. “The lawyer told Beau her dad left everything to Amber.”

  “What?” Rose screeches.

  “Everything except a car.”

  “A BMW?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The asshole. He only left her the car he bought for her birthday? She didn’t want it back then!” I won’t ask how she knows about the car. Or the apartment Beau was looking at. Or what happened when James showed up at the viewing. “And he left everything else to that gold-digging whore?”

  I hum my confirmation.

  “Well, one out of two isn’t bad, is it?” she asks with light humor.

  “What?”

  “Amber. When she didn’t get anything out of you, she moved on quite quickly and got her claws into another man.”

  Is she comparing me to a middle-aged, overweight, graying, egotistical prick? “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.” Do not kill her.

  She laughs. “Oh, baby, did you think Amber was with you for love?”

  Yes, actually. Because she was, among other things, of course. Don’t kill her, Danny. “Rose, I—” It lands in my brain like a bomb. Why Amber’s been calling me. What she wants. Fuck! Okay, I considered love, but she knows that ship’s sailed. I considered money, but that boat’s gone now too, loaded with Beau’s inheritance. Amber would have known she was set to cop it all. So why the fuck has she been persistently calling me?

  “Danny?” Rose says. “Are you there?”

  “Fuck me,” I breathe, looking at the rearview mirror to everyone in the back. “I’ll call you back,” I say, hearing Rose tell me I won’t as I hang up.

  Goldie, Fury, and Ringo wait patiently for me to unravel the words and speak them, and Otto gets back into the car, placing a laptop box on his thighs. He slaps it and turns a smile my way. It falls when he finds my blank face. Then he turns in his seat and looks at the others in the back. “What?” he asks. “I’ve only been in there for five fucking minutes. What’s happened now?”

  “Good question,” Ringo grunts.

  “We’re waiting for Miss Marple here to enlighten us on her enlightenment.” Goldie nods toward me.

  “Protection,” I say. “She’s scared. Amber was looking for protection, and not from her ex-lover’s disgruntled daughter when she found out her inheritance went to Amber.”

  “If not for that, why would Amber want protection?” Otto asks, starting to spin the ring in his lip. “And why was she at the funeral if she’s scared?”

  “Me. She was hoping to see me. And she did, but I was surrounded by cops so she couldn’t approach me. Plus Beau went after her.” Why didn’t I consider this before? “She knows something.” I go to my phone but smack the steering wheel when I remember Amber’s calls to me recently have been from a withheld number. Another red flag. Shit, I don’t have a number for her. Keeping the contact details of an in-house whore was something I would never do. “Fuck it.”

  “What could she know?” Goldie asks. “And about who? From my understanding, she got about a bit.” She raises her brows. “I’m thinking there were a few men in between your fine self and Mr. Hayley all, I’m sure, with gleaming personalities or even shinier criminal records.”

  My lip curls naturally. “If you weren’t a woman, I’d punch you daily,” I grate, knowing the simple fact that I’m being a sexist pig will hurt our fair lady as much as actually punching her in the face.

  She mirrors my lip and I’m pretty sure she growls too, but my phone saves me from a face-off with Goldie. No number. Amber. I answer quickly, but I don’t get her annoyingly purring voice. No. Instead, I get a rough, Russian, grainy voice.

  “Black,” he grunts.

  “What do you want, Volodya?” I haven’t got time for this ridiculous game of Who Knows the Bear.

  “Guns.”

  I burst out laughing, hanging up and dropping my mobile into my lap, holding onto the steering wheel, arms braced, my body convulsing. What the ever-lovin’ fuck? Anyone else want our guns? “Jesus.” I chuckle, my eyes leaking as I roughly wipe at them, then at my coarse cheeks, then run a hand through my overgrown hair, my body making random jumps as I try to recover from my laughing fit. I find all eyes on me when I’m done. “Volodya,” I say, digging between my thighs to find my mobile. “He wants some guns.”

  “Tell him to join the fucking queue,” Ringo mutters, uninterested, going back to his phone as mine rings once again. “It’s busy today,” he adds, his voice flat.

  “Tell me about it.” I raise it to my ear. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Black, I don’t know if you’ll remember me—”

  “Try me,” I say over a laugh. “You’d be surprised. I’ve got ghosts cropping up left and right at the moment.”

  “Jeeves?” he says, and I frown.

  “Who?”

  “Jeeves, sir. The concierge from The Four Seasons.”

  Jeeves? Well, shit. I never showed it, of course, but I really liked this guy. He can find you anything, anytime, for a fee, of course. He’s never failed. “What can I do for you, Jeeves?”

  “I hope you don’t mind me calling. You see, I held your number from when you used to stay here regularly a few years ago.” Over three years ago. Before I met Rose. “We have a situation.”

  “What’s that?”

  Jeeves launches into a detailed report of the situation, and I listen, not quite believing what I’m hearing. “Mr. Black, you’re the only man who can help me.”

  He’s right. and I can’t refuse him the help he’s pretty much begging me for. He’s a good guy, and I owe him. Plus, I really need an outlet right now. “I’m on my way, Jeeves.” I hang up and send a quick text. Fuck me, I’m going to enjoy ripping the situation limb from limb.

  * * *

  I stroll into The Four Seasons with the other’s forming a wall behind me, and the bustling lobby falls utterly silent as we walk across the perfectly polished cream marble tiles, the only sound a mix of our collective footsteps and the staff behind the reception desk tapping away at their keyboards.

  Until they look up.

  I can’t tell if their looks are that of dread or relief. Maybe a bit of both. “Mr. Black.” Jeeves rushes out from behind the concierge desk, coming at me with his hand held out, his face one of gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you for coming.”

  “Anything for an old friend,” I say, discreetly placing a bundle of hundred-dollar bills into his hand. It’s not often there are rooms available at The Four Seasons, and Jeeves always found one for me when I was single and looking for somewhere other than our busy house, somewhere private, to fuck. I’m married now sure, but I can guarantee that one day, my wonderful, glorious wife will boot me out. I need to keep Jeeves sweet in case I need a bed for the night, since all the spare rooms at my house are fucking full.

  He looks down at the cash with utter confusion, probably wondering why I’m thanking him when I’m here to help him, before he quickly tucks it away. “Let me show you.” Jeeves motions toward the elevator. “Please, I beg you, can we keep it clean?”

  “I can’t promise that, Jeeves,” I say to myself, though I know he hears because he breathes out his despair.

  As we ride up, Jeeves’s concern only grows as he takes in my gang of misfits, and when I pull my gun from the back of my trousers, he pushes his back against the elevator wall, his despair real, as I check the magazine. The doors open and Jeeves remains inside where it’s safe. “We can take it from here,” I say, taking the key card from his grasp. “Thanks, Jeeves.” The elevator doors close, and I face the corridor. “Just when I thought today couldn’t give any more.” I pace toward the room, armed with my key card and my Glock, making sure my steps are light, unheard, and when I’m before the wood, I ensure I don’t stand in front of the door viewer, keeping my back against the wall, checking the others are ready. They all nod, hands on their backs as I slip the card into the slot. The light flashes green, and I gently push the door open.

  The smell hits me like a brick to the face.

  Alcohol, nicotine, and sex.

  I walk quietly through the suite, taking in the empty bottles on the table, a few stray lines of cocaine, cigarette butts overflowing in a few tumblers. And then grunts. Grunts and pathetic screams. Lame screams from a woman who’s pretending to enjoy herself.