“Did I hear that right?” Goldie asks, going to her phone, undoubtedly checking the CCTV. Then she stalks into my dressing room, reappearing seconds later holding up a shell casing. “Fancy leaving this around for her to find.”
I say nothing, gathering Beau into my arms and carrying her out of my office. “Get me a T-shirt and call her uncle.” It’s the right thing to do, though I don’t relish the thought of facing the condemnation. Because that’s what it’ll be. A trial. A judgment.
A persecution.
By the time we’ve made it to a hospital, Beau’s slipped in and out of consciousness endless times. I’m no doctor, but I know when a body is in protective mode, whether protecting itself from physical pain or mental trauma. I fear I’m dealing with a bit of both.
I carry her into the reception, and the lady behind the pane of glass immediately jumps up from her desk. “A broken wrist and six episodes of fainting. Low blood pressure.” I reel it off as she guides me down the hall into a room.
I settle Beau on the bed and make space for the doctor to move in and assess her. “Her name?”
“Beau. Beau Hayley.”
“Age?”
“Thirty.”
“And you are?”
I snap my mouth closed, looking across to Beau’s unconscious form. “Boyfriend,” I say quietly. My worry now, my pain seeing her like this? There’s only one explanation. It’s fucked up on every level for me to have allowed this to happen.
And yet here I am, falling for the fucking enemy.
“Mister . . .”
“Kelly.”
“Any allergies?”
“None that I know of.”
“And is she or could she be pregnant?”
I recoil, surprised, shocked, and a whole heap of other things. “Pregnant?” I mimic like an idiot. “No.” I look across to Beau. “I don’t know.” Could she be? Is that why she’s passing out left and right? Fuck, I don’t know.
“This way, please, sir,” the nurse presses, and I look blankly at her, dazed. “I just need some details from you.”
“Yeah, sure,” I murmur, following her gesturing arm like a zombie.
Once we’re outside, I answer all the nurse’s questions, and it’s an achievement given my mind is a total haze. “That’s all,” she says, as Goldie comes barreling into the hospital after parking her car.
“Okay?” she asks, and I nod, bewildered. “Sure?”
I clear my throat. “I shouldn’t have left her.”
“You had no choice.”
I did have a choice. There would have been another opportunity to take out The Shark’s second-in-command. But like with any of the men I kill, I get another opportunity to discover who The Bear is. Will they be with him? Make a call to him? Lead me to him? It’s not happened yet, but I won’t give up. “Did you call her uncle?”
“On his way.”
“Good.”
“There’s something else.”
I look at her, hoping and praying she doesn’t hit me with another known location for one of The Bear’s men, because I’m going nowhere right now. “What?”
“Otto called. The tracker’s moving.”
“Keep me updated.”
“And Brad Black’s had an attempt on his life,” she says, and I recoil.
Brad Black? “But he’s lying low. Out of the game.” The guy’s been running a nightclub for over a year now. Totally legit.
“I guess they want all of Danny Black’s roots gone. Doesn’t sound like The Bear’s willing to risk any recourse.”
I don’t like where this is heading. Brad Black is of no consequence to The Bear and his web of power. Not unless . . . My mind goes back to Spittle’s clumsy words. Likes. “What happened?”
“Dodged a bullet.”
“Fuck,” I breathe, falling into thought. The roots of Danny Black.
“And Spittle’s been in touch.”
Jesus, anything else? “I haven’t got time for him right now.”
“You sure?” she asks, cocking her head, telling me there’s only one right answer.
Naturally, I’m immediately wary. “What is it?”
“He wants to meet you.”
“The fuck?” I hiss, looking at Goldie like she could have just sprung another head. And then . . . “Why would that be?” I ask quietly. Brad Black’s had an attempt on his life. Spittle wants to meet me. “The answer is no.” I turn and walk away. Spittle must have a fucking death wish.
49
BEAU
I open my eyes and instantly slam them shut again, shying away from the harsh glare of lighting. My head is banging. My wrist though? I can’t feel a thing. I gingerly lift it from the bed and peel one eye open. Bruising. Heavy. A bone that’s protruding. I wince.
“Beau?”
I let my head drop on the pillow, finding James sitting on the edge of the bed. He reaches for my arm and slowly lowers it back to my side.
“How do you feel?” he asks, and I sigh.
Sleepy. I feel so sleepy. “Fine.”
“I’ve called your uncle.”
“Great,” I murmur.
“It’s a clean break,” a man across the room says. The doctor. “A few weeks in a cast will fix it, and the cut on the back of your head is superficial. Mild concussion. A nurse will be along shortly to clean up the cut and we’ll get you fixed up with a temporary cast until the swelling settles.”