Page 14 of Jagger's Remorse
Probably not. But maybe that's the point.
Maybe some sins don't get forgiven.
They just get collected. With interest. And Scarlett Delgado has come to collect.
CHAPTER TWO
Scarlett
The chain around my ankle is insulting.
Not because it's degrading—degradation was lesson number three in Culiacán.
But because it's a standard hardware store model.
Pickable in thirty seconds with a hairpin.
Twenty if I'm motivated.
The fact that Jagger thinks this would hold me tells me he hasn't been paying attention.
Or maybe he has, and this is his first test.
I catalog his room while he watches from his chair, pretending to doze.
His breathing's too controlled for sleep.
His grip on the Glock too ready.
Amateur.
Diego would have put a bullet in him already for such obvious tells.
My hand drifts to my throat, finding the chain with Papa's ring.
The metal is cold against my skin, and for a moment—just a moment—my vision blurs.
Not now,I tell myself, blinking hard.Not here.
I turn toward the window, pretending to study the compound layout while I force the grief back into its cage.
Five years, and it still ambushes me when I least expect it.
The room itself is a shrine to organized violence.
Weapons mounted on the walls like other men hang family photos.
A Remington 700 sniper rifle—the action's been worked on, probably drops targets at a thousand yards.
Various handguns, all clean, all loaded.
Knives arranged by size and purpose.
No trophies though.
No souvenirs from kills.
That's interesting.
