Moretti said nothing. He lay flat and closed his eyes, and Benito wondered if he’d die anyway, leaving him with a shit ton of productanda dead body to shift. But his imagination wouldn’t play that game for long. As though it refused to see an ending where Benito’s attempts at redemption ended in failure.
He gunned the SUV engine and drove away from the beamer, forcing himself to keep a bland pace that wouldn’t make them memorable to any passing car. The main road was three miles away. Benito cut across country, weaving along dirt tracks and lanes until he came to the quietest unmonitored junction.
Moretti perked up as they joined the A5 heading south. “Where are you taking me?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere. Just drop me off at the services.”
“Nah. Too risky with you covered in claret. And you need a hospital.”
“Right, because that’s not risky.” Moretti hissed through his teeth, cringing in pain.
Benito glowered at him in the mirror, already regretting not leaving him behind, but as he glared, it dawned on him how young Moretti was. Benito remembered him as a kid slinging weed because that’s what he’d been when he’d last seen him. Whatever had changed, the passage of time remained the same. Even if Moretti was an adult, he was barely out of his teens. “How old are you?”
“The fuck do you care?”
“I don’t. Just don’t want to get pulled with a busted-up kid in my car.”
“I’m twenty-two, you cunt,” Moretti muttered, heavy eyes closing.
Benito snorted. “Okay, mate.”
The miles disappeared, taking them closer to London than Benito ever wanted to be. He left the main road near Watford and cruised through the backstreets until he came to a meet point he knew Asa’s crew would find as soon as they knew where to look.
He got out of the car and opened the back door, rousing Moretti. “Get out.”
“Where are we?”
“I’ll tell you when you get the fuck out of my car.”
Moretti came upright and slid shakily from the SUV.
Benito guided him to the roadside and sat him down, passing him his ruined phone. “It’s dead. Give me a number and I’ll let someone know you’re here.”
“Who are you?”
Benito was flummoxed he hadn’t already been made. He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. Just give me a number, unless you want to stay here forever.”
It wouldn’t be forever. If Moretti couldn’t walk, at some point, he’d be found, but it wascold, and despite his bravado, the youngster was in shock, shaking and pale. There was every chance he’d fucking freeze, and he knew it.
Moretti parroted a phone number. Benito typed it into his burner phone and sent a message with their vague location. Moretti watched him, eyes beginning to droop again. “I feel sick, man.”
“You might have a concussion.”
“Lucky me.”
“You’ll be fine. Just get your boys to keep an eye on you when they pick you up.”
“Man, you’re a regular Florence Nightingale, huh?”
“If you say so.” Benito zipped Moretti’s jacket higher, then backed up, keeping his gaze on him until he reached his car. The fake plates seemed to mock him. Benito ducked behind the wheel and drove away, still watching Moretti as he slumped forward and buried his face in his knees.He’ll be fine.
But what if he wasn’t? What if he died at the side of the road and all Benito’s fucked-up conscience had done was stop him getting medical help that could’ve kept him alive?
There were no right answers, save going back in time and living a different life. A better one, where driving a taxi all night was enough.
With a heavy heart, Benito placed a call on the burner phone, set a meet, and turned east to empty his life of the product dusted all over his car. He drove for two hours until he reached Felixstowe and his contact was waiting. “This is the last load,” he said flatly. “Supply ran dry.”