Page 1 of Unorthodox
I seeChristopher London before he sees me.
He’s standing at the trunk of his black Mercedes, hands in his pockets, trying to pretend the unmarked cop car and the officer inside, parked just across from him in the nearly empty garage, isn’t on his payroll.
The officer, in turn, is trying to pretend he doesn’t have his gun resting against his thigh, finger on the trigger.
I know better.
One of my guys has the cop’s head in his sights. I imagine the inside of the officer’s brains will splatter that pristine windshield before this meeting is over.
At least, I hope that’s how this will go.
Then again, killing cops is messy. The coverup costs a lot more than I like to spend.
I’m unarmed when I exit the stairwell, strolling toward Christopher with a smile on my face, Dante at my back.
Dante is armed, a rifle strapped across his chest, but Christopher knew how this would go.
He fucked up so, I get to bring the guns.
IfIhad fucked up—which I never do—he could’ve brought the fun.
Unfortunately for him and his daughter, who is nowhere to be seen, that’s not quite how this is going to go.
When I’m close enough to make eye contact and he’s close enough to feel threatened, he pushes off the back of his car and extends his hand, like I’m actually going to shake it.
I don’t. And, I don’t say anything at all.
I will never understand why people waste perfectly good words when silence and a look can convey almost everything.
Christopher’s blue eyes narrow and he drops his hand, smoothing down his black blazer. It’s the same as mine, except I can almost guarantee mine costs more money.
“Look, Max, I thought we could talk this over.”
I slip my hands into my pockets, clutch the matte black playing card inside my left one. The card is a reminder that it’s no fun to lose your shit too early in a confrontation. Then your opponent justdies, and you don’t even get to watch them bleed.
That’s exactly the kind of sloppy I want to avoid.
Not saying a word, I shrug and glance at the cop, who is still looking down, like he’s fucking invisible. I turn back to Christopher, stare at him for a few seconds before I ask, “Where’s your daughter?”
I’ve seen pictures of Addison London. Thankfully, she looks nothing like her father. Which is great. None of my clients would be interested in fucking a female version of this asshole.
Christopher bites his tongue, glances down at the pavement beneath us on the second floor of the parking garage. It’s hot here, as it always is in North Carolina. I drove all the way here from Athena, South Carolina, to pick up my merchandise.
And now Christopher London wants to play games.
I squeeze the playing card tighter, feeling it flex beneath my fingers. It’s worn in places, torn around the edges. But I need it to last a little while longer before I move on to another king. I’ve already gone through four aces, trying to keep my shit together for nearly two decades, since I was fourteen and started using these things.
At thirty-two, you’d think I’d be better at it by now.
I’m not.
My trigger finger is feeling twitchy just looking at this pathetic excuse for a man. Men always do what they say they will.
But Addison isn’t here. Christopher is wasting my time.
When I feel like I might lose my patience, he finally looks up at me and his shoulders sag.
I feel a twinge of something like unease with his motion.
