An Eye for Danger (46 page)

"I trust him. With my life and yours." Sam removed his suit jacket and tie. He'd kept his lapels closed to hide the blood splatter, but now the worst was visible, James let out a low whistle. My eyes focused on the gun harness, which I'd never seen him wear. For uniform or court, I recalled him saying.

Sam dropped his jacket on the chair with his coat, underscoring that we were staying.

"They can't make this choice." I lowered my voice and edged closer. "We're endangering them."

James propped his elbow high on the door frame. "You two need a minute, 'cause my crew's awaiting orders."

"No, we're good," Sam said.

"While we're wiping the slate clean, you need new papers, fake insurance, new title…" James bobbed his head when Sam flashed a disapproving look. "Of course, we don't do that here. But maybe I know a guy."

Gripping the back of the chair, Sam thought a moment and blew out his cheeks. A discreet smile my way served as his flash apology for absconding my truck physically and now legally. Considering this was to save my ass, I couldn't exactly argue the matter, let alone file a police report.

"Fine." I shook my head. "But let's call us even."

"So that's Gucci-girl's truck," said James, jamming his thumb in my direction. "I can smell uptown bitch a mile away, but I didn't see that coming."

"Watch your mouth, James." Sam disengaged his shoulder harness.

"Hey, you drag in Princess here, some mangy mutt, and a last-century clunker into my garage, making all kinds of crazy demands, so I gotta ask myself if she's got you in a bind."

"My business, my way. You know the rules."

"Yeah, and I know the pile of shit those rules got you into last time, because I kept my mouth shut when you needed to hear a little truth."

"Leave it alone." Sam was visibly grinding his jaw, leaning over the harness, which still contained his weapon, on the table. My heart tripped at the thought he might be shopping for a fight.

"You got the hell outta here, Sam, outta the grind. For good, remember? No looking back. So when you come running to me, looking for cover in a place I know you can't stand the sight of, you're damn right I'm asking questions."

Before I could speak, Sam shook his head at me. "Radio silence."

My shoulders dropped. Silence never felt as heavy as these two men avoiding eye contact. But whatever they were talking about, this wasn't my fight.

James sauntered to Sam's side, hands in his pockets, the same way Sam did when he felt unsure. "Hey, man, you used to tell me everything. I got your secrets, you got mine. We used to talk, bro."

"Yeah, we used to."

"Okay, so I fucked up. Wrong move, right reasons. But don't let that burn down our history. Blood's thicker, man."

Looking up from under weighted brows, Sam set his hand on James' shoulder. Though a few inches taller, Sam's exhausted hunch brought the two men level. "Look, you can't ask. Not why or what. This one's bad, James, real bad."

"And she's the root of your troubles?"

Sam stared at me, his mouth opening, then shutting. Radio silence.

James whispered, "Hey, I ain't looking to piss you off. Just can't help thinking about that nightmare ex of yours. You don't need more of that."

Sam's head snapped up. "Different coins completely."

He broke away, pulled his Glock from his waistband, then Stone's weapon from the shoulder harness, and laid them both on the table to inventory magazines, count bullets.

"We need weapons. Ammunition. Anything you got, I'll take." Sam didn't look up.

"That's your scene, not mine," said James, hands raised. Finally, we had something in common. "But maybe I know a guy." He winked, grabbed a T-shirt from a laundry basket and threw it at Sam. "Whatever you're into, I hope that NYPD paycheck is worth it. Or at least she's worth it."

James glared at me on his way out. Clearly, he didn't know Sam as a Fed now, let alone the steep shit hole Sam had gotten thrown into, with our without my involvement. I felt relieved when the door slammed shut.

Sam removed his bloody button-down and pulled the olive-drab T-shirt over his bruised-up body. The color made his green eyes pop, as stunning as James' blues. I could see the intensity in both men was more kindred than their genes.

"They're just kids, Sam. Maybe not James and his sister, but the rest aren't even old enough to drink."

"Those kids," he said, holding a bullet in his teeth before pressing it into a magazine with his thumb, "know every way to strip your truck in under an hour. And then ship the pieces to three states. They've been outrunning cops since before they were legal to drive. Including James. So no, I'm not worried about them holding down their own fort. And no, they don't snitch on family."

"So you grew up here." I nodded, taking a new look at the room.

Sam scoffed at my review, which was as subtle as James' sneers, and I regretted the implied insult.

"Guess this is where I tell you I really did come from the gutter. Bowery born, Bowery bred. And I don't mean one of those fancy new high-rises." He craned his neck to view the skyline that evidenced the neighborhood's gentrification. "Stone wasn't completely wrong about me."

"But you got out. That counts."

"You don't have to talk like it's a prison ward."

"No, James did that for me."

I held my ground against his visual assault, knowing full well this fire got lit not by me, but when Sam and James were young, when the bravado of boys began to bloom and Sam planned his escape while James probably fought against breaking family bonds. I knew, because I'd made the same escape and suffered the same taunts from friends and family. No one approved of my war-zone office. I'd been expected to become a doctor or a lawyer. Or at worst, a stay-home journalist at the Audubon Society. Women from my neighborhood were reared to be delicate, well-dressed, well-spoken. Not warriors.

"Coming from a tough neighborhood doesn't make you trash, Sam. Just like coming from the Upper West Side doesn't make me classy. You think I'm proud of my roots? Money's just a tool, and I won't deny I've used that tool plenty. But I'm disgusted by the way people flaunt their wealth and power, and the way they use others to get it. That's not my way, and it's not your way. And we don't need to come from the same neighborhood to know the difference between right and wrong."

Sam stepped to the window, more reminiscing than inspecting for snipers, spinning a gun magazine in his hand. We stayed quiet a while, and Sam continued to watch the street below with jaded eyes.

"Used to play soccer in that alley. Split my head open on that light pole right there." He dotted the window with his index finger. "James and I rallied for the ball and I won. Boy, was he pissed. Laughed his ass off when I smacked my head though. Said it served me right for stealing his shot."

"Some friend."

"The best." Sam threw a smile over his shoulder. "James ain't the bad guy here. Most of those kids he took off the streets or stole them away from drug dealers. Or gangs. He teaches them skills they can use later, gets them to save money, finish school. Shit like that."

"Yeah, a real one-man vocational school."

A metal picture frame sat crooked on top of the fridge. I recognized James and Malta as teens standing next to a man and a woman I presumed to be their parents.

"Is your family close by?" I asked.

"This is my family." From behind, Sam hooked his arm around my waist, setting his head on my shoulder as he'd done in my apartment. He took up the photo and I could feel his smile graze my cheek. "His parents practically raised me. We might as well be brothers. Fighting and all. He saved me from a lot of scrapes. Always big brother coming to my rescue when I tried to take on neighborhood bullies. What a ham, but damn he was good. Even boxed at the local gym. We always had each other's backs."

"I envy you."

"My father used to beat the shit out of me for chewing gum at the dinner table. Don't envy me." Sam put the loving family photo back where it belonged. On someone else's shelf.

"Guess we have more in common than you think."

Sam turned me around. I shrugged. Broken kids, broken homes. That could happen in any neighborhood.

He stroked my face. "You've seen so much violence in your life," he said. "And I just keep bringing more to your doorstep. One day, you'll wake up and hate me for that."

"I already hate you, remember?"

He dropped his forehead to mine. What he didn't understand is that I didn't want pity, I wanted an equal.

The door opened. Malta carried in a stack of black clothes, linens, and boots. She saw Sam holding me and gave me a salty look. "Maybe these will fit. For a skinny girl, you got big feet. And I don't do Saks, so you gotta make do with my old rags. From when I was a kid. Girl fills out when she's got her own money. And you ought to use my bathroom. James is a slob." She fluttered her lashes at Sam, let everything drop on the bed, then swished her hips to the door. "Dog's in my room, chilling. Maybe I don't give him back."

Sam growled her name.

"I'm just saying," she muttered, her hand in the air. "Not like I get anything out of this."

"Don't mind Malta," he said when she'd left. "She's got a heart of cold steel."

 He shrugged into his harness, latched it over his shirt, and shoved a Glock in the holster and another in his waistband. Now fully dressed, Sam tossed me a black sweater and skinny black pants from the pile. Malta had her color scheme down early.

"Get changed," he said. "I'll get a time check from the crew and be back in flash."

The wafer-thin walls shook as Sam thundered downstairs. A few seconds later, he thundered back up. I'd already removed the cash from my bra, lost the waiter pants, and was unbuttoning the shirt when I sensed him behind step me.

"You're distracting me," I said, feeling the heat of his body radiate around me.

"Hmmm."

"Then at least help me out of this." When I turned, James stared down at me, his blue eyes shrinking to razor-thin slits.

CHAPTER 32

"So you and Sam got a little something on the side." James' stepped into my space, backing me toward the kitchenette. "Guess you like tough boys. Boys who can rumble. Take a few hits on your behalf."

We kept moving till he pressed me against the electric stove. Greasy black fingers fisted my shirtfront and held me there as he waited for me to blink.

"Maybe you like it hot and fast. I can do hot and fast." A quick glance to the burner. His fingers toyed with a front knob. "'Cause anything happens to my boy Sam, and I'll make you disappear. Just like Cameron did. You get what I'm saying, uptown girl? You don't fuck with my family."

I clawed into the back of his hand that held my shirtfront. "Get. Off. Me."

He checked my veneer for cracks, found none. His punk-ass threat meant nothing after a day of ducking bullets and facing Troy. And I wasn't about to validate his cheap intimidation tactics to test my loyalty to Sam.

James jerked toward me, and I flinched. Releasing my shirt, he splayed his hands in my face, smiling like nothing happened. Then his breath hitched and he reeled sideways.

Sam slammed him onto the card table, which shuddered and threatened to fold. James blew out his lungs with a
humph
. Glasses smashed to the floor, plates snapped in half beneath his shoulder. With another thud, Sam flipped him onto his back, snapping James' head back.

James saw what was coming next, but he couldn't scramble fast enough to avoid Sam's fist. The first blow landed hard and fast to the flesh of his cheek, throwing James' face sideways. The second jammed into his mouth, busting his upper lip open.

Sam's elbow cocked for round three, and James' eyes enlarged.

"Enough." I grabbed Sam's arm. His body was shaking, lusting to hurt, maim, kill anyone in our path. "Stop. He's not the enemy." I pulled against rigid muscles.

"You ever touch her again, I swear I'll—"

"Don't say it." I eased Sam back another inch. "Don't. You can't take it back."

"We're cool, we're cool." James forwarded his palms, but he was sweating blood, the way the asshole had made me sweat. His tongue licked his swollen lip. Then he looked to me. "We're cool, right?"

Sam smashed James back on the table, hammered a blow under James' rib cage.

"Sam!" I squeezed between him and James before another fist struck. "Look at me."

 Sam's jaw was clenched so tight my touches didn't penetrate, and I thought he'd strike me instead. With James sandwiching me from behind, I'd nowhere to duck. Beats drummed by.

"No more violence. I've had enough, Sam. We've had enough."

Tentative, Sam lowered his fist and let me corral him against the wall, but his eyes remained locked on his prey.

Inhaling with a slight wheeze, James rolled off the table, dragging more broken dishes to the floor. He pulled off a ceramic chunk clinging to his T-shirt. When he shook his head, blood and spit flew onto the floor, so he shoved two fingers inside his mouth, poking his inner cheek. Then he felt his nose bridge and relaxed his shoulders when he found nose not broken.

"Damn," said James before spitting blood into the sink.

"Damn is right." Malta stood in the doorway. "I miss all the good fights."

Sam's breath sawed the air, and I struggled to hold him back from more battle. James set a towel to his mouth, dropped onto a chair, and looked sideways at Sam, which made Sam's eyes flare.

"Get out," I said, pressing into Sam's chest to keep him from charging. I glanced at James. "I'll take care of him. Just leave us alone. "

With a shoulder roll, James stood and dragged Malta from the room in a choke hold. "Mind your own business, girl," he said to his sister.

The room's temperature cooled when the door finally shut tight. Sam jerked away from me, tearing at his hair, veins popping at his temples. Without furniture to break or thugs to throw out the window, Sam shouldn't be left alone with guns. At least he hadn't pulled his weapon on James, I reminded myself.

Still, I locked the door. "Nobody's taking me away from you, Sam."