Page 44 of Last Hand

I narrow my eyes. This feels too convenient, too easy. “And you think after all this time, she just decided to give you their location?”

“She was scared, talking fast. I think she was taking a risk even calling me.” Nathan goes to take a step toward me, then thinks better of it when he sees my expression. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I know Rebecca loved our girls, she would never hurt Fallon.”

“How exactly did this call end?” I ask Nathan, watching his face closely for any sign of deception.

“She said something about don’t hate them because of what I did.” Nathan’s eyes are wide, pleading. “I think this is our chance. If Rebecca is helping us from the inside?—”

“Rebecca left you and your daughters years ago,” I remind him coldly. “And now she’s suddenly Mother Teresa? Working against her new husband to help the family she abandoned?”

Nathan flinches as if I’d struck him. “People change. Maybe she regrets?—”

“People don’t change,” I cut him off. “They just reveal who they really are, and this could be a trap.”

Milo steps closer handing the paper back, his expression giving nothing away. I catch his eye and nod slightly. He understands what I need without words.

“This cabin,” I say, turning back to Nathan. “I’ll need the address. Every detail you can remember about the property, the cabin, access roads, terrain. Everything.”

Relief washes over Nathan’s face, aging him backwards by a decade. “Yes, of course. I can even take you there if you want.”

Shaking my head, I stand, straightening my cuffs. “Milo will get our people to check it out. You’ll stay here until we’ve verified this information.”

“I should come with you?—”

“You’ve done enough; you need to wait with Emma,” I say, the finality in my tone making him shrink back. “If Fallon is there, we’ll bring her back. If she’s not, we’ll keep looking. Either way, you’re staying put.”

Nathan looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. Smart man.

As Milo leads him away to another room, I pour myself two fingers of scotch and stand by the window, gazing out at the manicured grounds of my estate. The night is clear, stars visible despite the city lights in the distance.

I down the scotch in one swallow, feeling it burn a path to my stomach. If Rebecca is indeed trying to help, it means she knows Fallon is in danger which now has me more on edge.

The glass makes a soft clink as I set it down on the marble side table. One thing’s for certain: I don’t trust convenient coincidences or sudden maternal instinct. But I’ll use this lead all the same.

I hear Milo return, his footsteps measured and familiar.

“What do you think?” I ask without turning around.

“I think the man’s desperate enough to believe anything,” Milo replies. “That doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”

I laugh, a sharp sound with no humor in it. “The woman who abandoned her own daughters? Suddenly develops a conscience when she’s neck-deep in shit with Mikhail’s people?” I shake my head. “No. She’s trying to leverage something. She would have her own agenda. Or she’s setting us up.”

Milo’s eyes narrow slightly, his version of agreement. “Nathan seems convinced.”

“Nathan would believe she shits diamonds if it meant getting his Fallon back.” I toss back the scotch, feeling it burn, pleasantly. “Get Vince and Carlo. I want scouts at that cabin within the hour.”

Milo pulls out his phone, his fingers moving quickly over the screen. I watch him, grateful not for the first time that I havehim. In a world full of idiots and traitors, Milo is the closest thing to certainty I have.

“Tell them to check it out,” I continue. “No engagement. I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with before we make a move. We need to deal with this shipment.”

I stareat the harbor map spread across my desk, the shipping lanes marked in red, drop points in blue. Mikhail’s ultimatum hangs over me and I need to sabotage Santos’s shipment or face consequences. The Russian thinks he has me backed into a corner, forced to choose between crossing the Mexican cartel or inviting his wrath. What he doesn’t understand is that men like me don’t accept binary choices. We create third options, preferably ones where our enemies eliminate each other while we watch from a comfortable distance.

“The shipment arrives tomorrow night,” Milo says, appearing at my side with a glass of water and two pills, painkillers for the headache that’s been building behind my eyes all day. I take them without comment.

“Santos has been a reliable partner,” I say, tracing the route his trucks will take from the docks. “Mikhail is wanting to start a war for some reason.”

Milo’s face remains impassive, yet I catch the slight tension in his jaw. “If we cross the cartel, we lose access to their supply chain. If we cross Mikhail?—”

“He’ll kill Fallon,” I finish.

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