“Look, I’m not here to cause problems,” I tell the men, trying to keep my voice level. Every set of eyes flies to my face. It’s hard not to turn and bolt for safety.
“Why are you here, then?” Lopez asks.
“My brother told me this new gig you guys are running is a gold mine.” I shrug. “I want in.”
“Your brother has a big mouth.” His eyes slide to Jaxon. “Might get him in trouble.”
Jax stiffens beside me. “Watch it, Lopez.”
“You watch it, Reyes.”
“This is my crew. You don’t like it, you’re welcome to leave. Go back to selling dime bags of black tar on street corners — we’ll be here moving bricks, surrounded by stacks of money, making the Kings so rich no one can touch us.”
“Stop running your mouth about our business,” Lopez roars, putting a hand on his holster. “This kid isn’t a King—”
“He will be,” Jaxon shouts, shooting me a look. “And he’s family. I trust him.”
“Idon’t trust him.” Lopez strides forward, standing nose to nose with Jaxon. “And I don’t trust you. Not anymore.”
“What are you saying, Lopez?” Jaxon’s hand moves subtly toward the small of his back, where the base of a handgun juts from the waistband of his jeans. I inch backward, certain I’m about to be caught in the middle of a shootout.
Where the hell is the DEA?
They must have enough evidence to move in by now.
I try to think of something I can say to diffuse the tension in the room, to prevent the powder-keg of drug-fueled testosterone from exploding. Anything I say right now feels highly flammable. As liable to trigger an explosion as it is to prevent one.
“Look, Jax, I didn’t come here to cause you problems,” I murmur in what I hope is a diplomatic tone. “If it’s this big a deal for me to be here, I’ll just go—”
Lopez looks at me. “You’re not going anywhere, kid. No one is going anywhere.”
Fuck.
What was my extraction code, again?
Something about high tide…
My brain is a mess of static; my limbs feel stiff as plaster. In the myriad scenarios I ran with the DEA, this — Jaxon’s crew pulling a mutiny — was not one of them.
I can sense things going south rapidly. It’s only a matter of time before bullets start flying. I have no plans to be here, when that happens.
“Don’t threaten my little brother!” Jax’s fingers curl around his gun. “You’re out of line, Lopez.”
“What the hell is going on out here?” The question precedes the arrival of another man from the sleeping berths. Everyone turns to watch as the door swings open and he emerges, rubbing his eyes and yawning. His face is full of ill-temper. “I was trying to sleep! Who could rest with all this fucking racket—”
I use the momentary distraction of his arrival to inch backwards, toward the exit. Under my breath, I murmur the catchphrase I memorized this afternoon. The one that Pomroy and Stanhope promised would deliver salvation within ninety seconds.
“I think it’s almost high tide.”
I speak so lowly, I’m sure no one else can hear it over the volley of shouts firing back and forth across the room; so lowly, I’m worried the microphone embedded in my shirt can’t pick it up, either.
I don’t care.
I’m not waiting.
I’m getting the fuck out of here.
I take another step backward, toward the door — and hit a wall. Except it’s not a wall at all.