Page 3 of Unorthodox
His wife is fucking dead.
I grab my handgun from the center console, have it out the window before Christopher can blink.
The gunshot makes my ears ring, echoing in the parking lot as he drops to his knee. More, louder shots reverberate in the garage, and glass shatters as Dante takes care of the cop.
In the silence that follows, Christopher London screams, because he went down on the wrong leg after I decided to let him live.
He’s only got one good kneecap now.
He’ll need to figure out how the fuck to kneel correctly.
Danik isat the beach when he comes for me.
I know it’s him, because the glass of the screen door shatters and only a man that’s in the same line of work as my father would make such an entrance in a sleepy little beach town like this.
He’s coming for me, but I’m ready for him.
Or as ready as I’ll ever be.
Danik should’ve listened. He should’ve driven us to the west coast. He should’ve gotten me the hell out of here, but Danik has been out of the life for five years. At twenty-three, he’s five years older than me, but he’s been sheltered.
Not from everything.
No, we experienced our uncle, Cade, together, but that was when we were kids. The past five years, since he left?
He’s missed all of that.
Besides that, he’s a boy. In my world, boys get treated with respect. Girls…not so much.
I grab my cell phone from my nightstand, ripping it off the charger. I dial Danik’s number, but I know he’s probably on a wave right now.
Still, I let the call ring, set the phone down, and reach for the knife under my pillow.
It’s not a gun, but I don’t feel comfortable with those.
You get one shoved down your throat as a child and you never really get over it, I guess.
There’s silence in the aftermath of the glass shattering, but this house is small. I glance at my open window, stand to my feet. I’m in grey leggings, an oversized pink t-shirt. I haven’t been able to sleep in my usual shorts and tank for fear of exactly this moment happening.
Glancing at the clock on my nightstand, I see it’s six in the morning. Danik left fifteen minutes ago.
They were watching.
Hewas watching, but I’m sure there’s more than one man.
I take a step on the creaky wooden floors, toward my window. Danik’s house is modest, my bed a twin, barely enough room for him to have squeezed the dresser in.
When you leave the life, you don’t get to take anything with you. If it weren’t for the fact my father thinks Danik will come back and take over the “family business” once he’s “had his fun”, Danik would be dead.
I’d be dead, too.
But my father values Danik, and Danik values me. That makes my life worth a little more than nothing in my father’s eyes.
Not quite enough tonotsell me off for some job that went horribly wrong down in Miami, but still. I’m here, and I’m breathing, and that’s more than a lot of runaway kids of the various cartels throughout the country can say.
The window is free of any furniture because I set it up that way, and when I get to it, I kneel down silently, listening as I press the tip of the switchblade up to the window screen because the sliding gears are jammed in this old house.
There’s nothing but bramble and sand in the backyard, and Danik’s Subaru. He walked to the beach; it’s two blocks from the house here in Surf City. If I can climb out of this window, I’ll be able to run down to it, and I know, even this early, people will be there.
