Pretty place to die, if you like irony.
I press the stolen radio to my ear. Static. Then a man laughing.
Boca.
I know that little prick’s voice from Lady’s video.
“Boss says ten more minutes, then we move her,” Boca says. “Pretty DJ don’t look so out of league now.”
Another voice answers, muffled. “Toro coming back?”
“Toro does what Toro does.”
There. Confirmation. He is here or close enough to matter.
Then Boca laughs again, lower this time. “Carmen’s people said make sure the DJ knows about Cherry. About her baby. But who is she to call the shots? Bitch shit.”
The world narrows.
Vice’s hand clamps on my shoulder.
Hard.
Because he hears it too.
Because Lady might hear it.
The last thing we need is Lady to put up a fight about being rescued.
Boca keeps talking. “Carmen said the timing has to be right. Imagine getting rescued and finding out the biker bleeding for you already buried a kid with another bitch. Miami romance, bro.”
My vision goes white around the edges.
Vice gets in front of me before I can move. “Road captain.”
I want to shove him through the truck.
I want Boca’s teeth in my hand.
I want to go backward in time and choose a cleaner life, which is hilarious because I wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with one.
“Move,” I say.
Vice’s eyes don’t blink. “Think.”
“I am thinking.”
“No. You’re hearing Cherry’s ghost and letting Boca drive.”
He’s right.
Again.
I hate everybody today.
I pull in one breath through my nose. Flowers, diesel, cold air leaking from the dock. Lady is inside. Alive. Waiting. Not for my rage. For my brain.
I nod once.