“Droga, it’s been a while. And look at that.” He motions in Callie’s direction. “I delivered your favorite pussy to this island. That counts for something, doesn’t it? Tell your friends to cool it. Then come visit.”
I want to murder him.
He doesn’t do anything for the sheer favor.
“So leave them here and go back,” I say.
“Tsk-tsk. That’s it?” He cocks his head and takes another step back. “You should’ve learned that it’s an eye for an eye. A favor for a favor. So, the question is what are you willing to do for that little blonde petal of yours?” He stretches his hand toward Callie and flicks a strand of her hair with a gun.
I want to rip his arm out of its socket. I jerk toward him, but Bo’s iron grip on my shoulder stops me.
There is no reasoning with Crone, I know. He wants something, and I can’t figure out what it is. He got his revenge four years ago—more than he bargained for. I can never forget his mocking gaze when he first saw my tattoos on the Westside when I snuck into his party and caught him high and drunk.
“Droga, Droga. So sweet. Years later, all this”—he motions with his gun down and up my body—“and you are still playing a knight.” He grins, his lips curled down. “So noble. But!”
Crone cocks his head in theatrical surprise.
“We have other plans. So if you want to find out what they are, come to the Westside. I am always willing to talk, yeah?”
He raises his gun in the air and motions in a circle.
As if on cue, his goons start backing up. Fast. Smoothly. Rifles and guns pointing at us.
How did he get so many shooters? I don’t recognize any of them—they are older, not the Deene crowd or any of the spring-breakers. Secretary must have sent help.
But the thought escapes me because he has Callie, and I can’t do anything. These are not the Savages, useless amateurs. This is Crone’s best crew, I’m sure. And he showed up himself, which is unheard of. It’s not about Callie or Katura or Dani, who he is leaving behind. It’s something else. It’s a mystery, even to me.
Still, I want to fucking murder him.
I shake in anger, knowing that I am no use against the AK-47s.
Bo steps forward. “Archer, let go of the girls. They are not your property.”
Archer only chuckles, taking a step back, his crew sinking slowly into the darkness of the night jungle path. “Cute, Bo. Real fucking cute. But guess what? I put my time and resources into bringing them here. And I lost out quite a bit, considering the boat crash. So they have to work for it.”
Bo shakes his head. “They don’t. They are not slaves.”
“But they are cargo, Bo.” Archer smiles.
They are retreating slowly. We can barely see them but are stepping into them though we know we don’t have a chance.
“There was no contract to sign, but there is always a disclaimer,” Archer says calmly. And no matter what words are said, I know that he won’t let go. It’s in his gaze that I learned so much during the months together. He never lets go. He always gets what he wants. “Always read the small print. It says that you have to pay off the expenses. Yeah? Makes sense? So they will pay. They don’t have anything, but I’ll take whatever I can get.”
A cold smile on his face is a confirmation.
Katura tries a move and kicks one of the guys, making him groan, but there are three of them on her at once. They twist her arms, and she is on her knees, grunting in pain.
“Fuck off,” she hisses like a cat. They jerk her up and drag her further back.
Callie just walks, pulled back by one of the goons. Her eyes are on Crone. They are furious, full of hatred.
“Alright, guys!” Crone says loudly, not taking his eyes off me. “Time to move!” He swings his gun in the air like it’s a lasso. And they start moving back faster, watching their step.
Crone turns away for one second.
Just this one second.
And Bo lunges at him, slamming his body into Crone’s and tackling him to the ground.