Page 183 of Unorthodox
He smiles, white teeth flashing as he runs a hand over his short, dark hair before he glances at the black watch on his wrist. Dropping his hand, he sighs. “That makes two of us,” he tells me. He nods toward the warehouse at my back. “Let’s get this taken care of.”
“Do you have a night class?” I ask him as he walks past me, nodding toward his guards. I don’t follow him, but I watch him head to the door.
When he reaches it, he turns to stare at me. “A night class?” he repeats, narrowing his eyes.
I shrug. “You’re in college, right?”
Mamie is right behind me, and I see, out of the corner of my eye, she bites back a laugh.
Jeremiah doesn’t laugh. Instead, he nods toward my arm in the sling. “What happened?”
“I was shot. Twice.” Not the first time, and certainly won’t be the last, but I don’t feel like having a longer conversation than I need to with this fuck.
Jeremiah winces, but it’s exaggerated. Fake. “Pity,” he says flatly. His hand goes absentmindedly to his abdomen, but as soon as he realizes he’s doing it, he slides his hand back into his pocket.
I wonder if he was shot in the stomach.
Without another word, he turns away from me, and one of his men opens the door, an electronic beep sounding at the guard’s touch. Jeremiah steps through the doorway, then glances at me. “If you don’t want to fuck up your other arm, don’t ask any more stupid questions.”
There’san office in the back corner of the warehouse, which is otherwise strangely empty. The cement floors are swept, the air is stagnant, and aside from the clicking of Mamie’s heels as she walks beside me to the open office door, there’s just silence.
The guards didn’t take my gun or search Mamie, which seems stupid on the kid’s part, but I don’t bother mentioning it to him.
His threat is still ringing in my ears, pissing me off.
He steps inside the office, the same cement floors throughout, a bookshelf lining the back wall, a dark wooden desk positioned in front of it. There’s a leather chair behind the desk, and nothing else.
I’m not sure what Jeremiah Rain does here, but I doubt it’s much.
He produces a key from his pocket, takes down three thick books from the shelf, sets them on the desk with a glance at me. He turns back to the shelf, uses the key to unlock a hidden compartment that the books hid, and pulls out a padded, beige mailer.
Slipping the key in his pocket, he faces me, offering the envelope.
I don’t take it.
“Everything is in there?”
His lips turn up into a cold smile. “Why don’t you check?”
“Why don’t you fucking open it and show me yourself?”
His jaw tightens as he glances up at the ceiling, but then he opens up the envelope, pulls out a dark blue, U.S. passport. He flips it open to the biodata page, turns it toward me.
It’s my face, but not my name.
Snapping it closed, he slides it into the envelope, then brings his gaze to mine. “Your flight leaves in an hour from a private jet at Alexandria International. If you’re not on the plane in forty-five minutes, you won’t get on it.”
“Who’s the pilot?”
He holds out the envelope toward me and Mamie takes it, allowing me to keep my free hand on my gun.
He notices, his eyes tracking the movement, but smartly, he says nothing. “A guy in my employ. He has business in Russia too.” He shrugs, slides his hands back into his pockets. “You’re just cargo.”
I let his comment go. “The money is already transferred,” I tell him. “Forget we ever had this conversation.” I turn to go, ready to get out his little warehouse before I shoot the smartass in the head.
“Max,” he says softly. “Are you going for a girl?”
I tense, taking a deep breath in through my nose before I turn back toward him. I don’t answer him, all the memories of my last moments with Addison, the thought of Oliver’s grown body, lifeless in my arms, making my throat tighten.
