Page 80 of His Fury

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Yes.”

Money laundering. I’d accused him of it in my head many times, and now he was confirming it. “As in washing money?”

“Yes.”

I turned toward the window, the words cold against my skin. Maybe Ishouldhave stayed in bed…

Rye parked in an alley behind a tired-looking strip mall. A row of dumpsters, a crooked loading dock to a sorry-looking building, and a flickering motion light greeted us.

“This is the part where you wait,” Zayn said. “It won’t take long, ten minutes, max.”

I nodded, my eyes drawn to the surroundings. It was like something from a crime thriller movie. One with a bad budget and Z-list actors.

“Isla!”

His sharp tone made me jump in surprise, and I turned back to see him twisted in the seat, looking at me. “Stay in the car. This is not a game, understood?”

I nodded again, swallowing hard against the tightness in my chest.

“Come on,” Rye muttered. “They’ll be wondering why we’re taking so long.” He got out of the SUV.

Zayn kept his eyes on me for a moment longer, and then he stepped out of the car, straightening his jacket, and I watched the two of them as they disappeared into the back entrance.

My teeth gnawed at my bottom lip. This was what I wanted. To see who the man I was in love with was. My heart was all in, but I needed to know ifIwas all in.

I waited exactly three minutes. Then I opened the door, checking my surroundings for the telltale signs of CCTV. Seeing none, I wasn’t surprised. Why would they have footage of what they were doing?

The warm air enveloped me like a hug as I walked carefully to the loading dock.

Just inside the door, I heard the voices.

Low. Rough. Male.

I edged closer, staying out of sight near the corner of the building. Just enough to peek.

Zayn and Rye stood with two men—one older, hunched in a wool coat, and the other younger with a tight buzzcut and a casual hand resting near the waistband of his jeans…where a gun sat, tucked in just enough to be visible.

It was then that I saw Rye was in a similar stance, standing just to the left of Zayn, one step behind. His hand was near his waist.

I fought down the rising panic as I watched money exchanging hands. Envelopes. Fat envelopes stuffed with cash. There was no small talk.

“You can count it if you want,” the older guy offered.

“Do I need to?” Zayn asked, handing the envelopes to Rye who had pulled a black bag from his pocket.

“No.” The older man laughed. “Never shortchanged you yet, McCabe.”

“Which is why we’ve never had a problem.” Zayn looked around. “We done?”

“Yeah.” The older guy glanced at the younger one beside him. “What did we buy this time?”

“High-priced vodka that tastes like paint stripper,” Zayn told him.

“It’s no good?” the younger man asked.

“As cheap as the whore who sold it.”

My face paled at the disgust in his voice and the cruelty of his words. I started to back away, and that’s when the younger one glanced over Zayn’s shoulder.

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