Page 127 of The Last Call Home
“What did she say?”I mumble.
“Asshole.You really thought I’d let you take my daughter?”Lilah responds, almost chuckling—it’s probably the adrenaline.
And then she adds, quieter, deadlier:
“I warned you.You search for me.You’ll regret it.”
Desmond, bleeding and slumped, spits something indistinct—but he’s trembling now.Not from the wound.From her.
Delilah lets out a sound?—
A sob.
A laugh.
A choked, broken thing caught in her throat as she stares at the woman she thought she’d lost.
She turns in my arms, eyes wide, shimmering.
“Mom?”she whispers.
And Rosalinda—her expression softens just enough to flicker.Just enough to be human.
“I told you I’d never be far, mi chiquita.”
But she doesn’t move toward us.She keeps her stance.Protecting.Watching.“Somebody needs to get this man out and ...where is your bracelet?”
I pull it out.
“That will give his people proof that he killed his brother.”
“Technically, I’m alive,” the man next to her mumbles.
Rosalinda narrows her gaze.“We are going to discuss that later.So many years gone.It hurt.It hurt too much.”
The man beside her moves forward and kicks the gun away from the downed attacker, eyes sweeping the deck like he’s expecting reinforcements.
“We need to move,” he says, tight and matter-of-fact.“There might be more.I’m not sticking around to find out.”
ChapterFifty-Nine
Malerick
Fuck.This is how it happens, isn’t it?Not in some glorious firefight, not with a sniper’s clean shot or a final stand backed against the wall with backup en route.No.This is how it ends—beneath a rust-slick dock at a forgotten port, the scent of low tide and diesel thick in the air, salt clinging to my tongue like regret.
Regret for not making sure to follow protocol.I should’ve worn the armor.Should’ve checked the straps of this fucking vest.Run a test drill.Something.Anything.But I didn’t.I told myself I was protected enough.That muscle memory would cover the gaps.All that mattered was saving her.
Now the dock tilts beneath me—or maybe I do.My equilibrium’s shot, thrown off by the warm, insistent pulse beneath my ribs, blood leaking faster than I want to admit.It’s not some dramatic gusher from a horror movie.Nope.My hand goes to my side, presses into the damp heat, and meets something too slick, too soft.I can’t tell if it’s muscle or if I’ve gone deeper, if I’ve ruptured something vital.What organs are on the left side?
Obviously I can’t remember.Anatomy wasn’t my favorite subject.The pain doesn’t register clearly.It’s distant, like it’s happening to someone else.I can’t catch a full breath.My chest keeps hitching like a misfiring engine.
It’s going to be okay, I tell myself.I’ve been through worse.That time when my fucking father broke my ribs and punctured my lung—I was twelve.Thought I was going to die.He did too, I guess.I remember the look in his eyes, right before he shoved the heel of his boot into my side again.And I remember crawling through the blood and spit, making it to the bathroom sink, locking the door.I survived that.This can’t be worse.Right?
A sound breaks my thoughts.Boots, stepping onto the dock.The rhythm is wrong—not rushed, not panicked.It’s more like an entrance.As if they’re enjoying the show.Me bleeding and probably two seconds from dying.I try to reach for my gun, but I can’t.
“Someone cover me,” I mumble hoping the earpiece has reception so that someone can hear me.
The first thing I see are the boots—black, polished, too clean for this place.Too clean for the rot and rust and salt that coats everything else in reach.Then the long coat follows, swinging with his stride.Tailored, too fancy for a moment like this.Who the hell wears bespoke outerwear to a murder scene?
