Page 89 of The Cinderella Secret
“Surprisingly, yes, I do try very hard, actually. I can never decide if I should rip into everything to figure out what all of you are up to, or if I should sit back and wait for you to ask for help, or for it to blow up in your faces and force my help on you.”
“We don’t make it easy, do we?”
“No, you do not.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” said Aiden. “I really am fine.”
“Hm.”
“Besides, I tell you about… most of my stuff. I told you about the Zhao guy who was following me!”
“You want a gold star?”
“Yes?”
Jackson laughed. “Does Ella know about your stuff?” He made air quotes aroundstuff.
Aiden barked out a surprised laugh and Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Sorry. Yes, she does.”
“And we’re not worried about her exposing it?”
“No,” said Aiden, with a grin. “We’re really not. Besides, Ella practically is my stuff. Don’t worry about Ella.”
Jackson stared at him measuringly. “OK, then.”
32
Jackson – Bodies
Jackson loved his car—an Audi R8 retailed for somewhere north of a hundred grand and damn did it go fast. But it wasn’t a brand that screamed small-dicked show-off the way a Porsche or Lamborghini did. It was almost subtle enough to be able to drive into the shittier neighborhoods without getting immediately targeted. Almost. But not quite. Which was why today Jackson was driving his other car—a dinged up 2015 Shelby GTO. It looked fast, but it also looked like it was being driven by some fucked meth head car-jacker. He got more tickets in the GTO, but no one tried to boost it when he went to Hunt’s Park.
Garcia was waiting for him in the shelter of a fire stair on the outside of a one of the big food warehouses. The kid next to him looked strung-out and squirrely as fuck. Jackson had been shoveling money and resources at the problem of where to find bank robbers like cash and overtime were going out of style. Two days might not seem like a long turn-around time to the cops, but Jackson had started to sweat. Anything longer than twenty-four hours and it was even money that his bank robbers were either dead or had skipped town.
Jackson’s money was on the skip. When he’d first started taking scores, a driver had told him to never be confused by the idea that a gun gave him power. Power was what the string-pullers and the planners had. Guns were for the guys at the bottom. And cash was for survivors. The lesson had stuck with Jackson. If he’d been on the bank crew, he would have been across the state line to just about anywhere by now.
Garcia looked like he was holding onto his temper by a thread. Babysitting junkies would do that.
“Cash,” said the kid as Jackson approached. “Cash only.”
“I have cash,” said Jackson, evenly. “Tell me what you have.”
The kid swiped as his nose and itched his head and then shoved his hands up into the opposite sleeves. “How do I know you won’t stiff me? Dingus said this guy was legit, but I don’t know you.”
Jackson took a fifty out of his pocket.
“It’s supposed to be two hundred,” said the kid. He looked like he was maybe seventeen. He was filthy, had cracked sores on his lips, and his shoes were held together with duct tape.
“Spill, T.J.,” growled Garcia. “We’re not going to stiff you.”
“Fifty up front,” said Jackson, holding it out. “Good faith.”
The kid took the cash and then went through the ritual of nose wipe, head scratch, fingers back up his sleeves. “OK. Um, so sometimes I squat in this warehouse and then a couple of days ago, I rolled up and went in through the back, like usual. Only it was already occupied, and they weren’t the kind of people that wanted company. And they were carrying a lot of serious hardware.”
“Handguns or rifles?” asked Garcia.
“I don’t fucking know,” said T.J. “Do I look like I can affordCall of Duty?”
“How many guys?” asked Jackson.
