Page 112 of Darcy
The grumbles of protest cut off quickly, and I turn around to find that Miguel’s goons are canvassing backstage with their guns drawn. Jackson’s hand is badly burned, and I suppress a grin. At least baby bot didn’t die without taking a chunk out of him in the process.
“Oh my goodness,” I fake coo in my ditsiest voice as he approaches me, hand outstretched for my lanyard. “Are you okay? Do you need me to get you something to put on your hand? I think there’s a first aid box in the kitchen—”
“Stay quiet,” he snarls, glancing at my pass. “I’m fine.”
I don’t push it, keeping my expression full of fake concern until he turns and leaves.
Only when they’ve all left, moving on to other areas of the venue, do I allow myself to breathe a sigh of relief. The atmosphere loosens as the guns disappear, and people start murmuring amongst themselves, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
Miguel doesn’t yet suspect one of the roadies is responsible. Good. But my time is running out. Roberto mentioned Houston, and I’m pretty sure that’s going to be my last chance. It’s also our next stop on the tour.
When Miguel himself steps into the backstage area, several of the roadies head straight for him, already voicing complaints and concerns.
“¡Cállense!” he snaps. “I don’t have time for your shit. Sort the fucking show out, and do it quickly. That’s what I pay you for.”
Without waiting for a response, he storms from the building, leaving the rest of the roadies flabbergasted.
Damn it! This is a complication I didn’t need.
Thirty-Seven
Darcy
The next morning, I arrive at the new hotel in Houston, bone weary and more than a little grumpy. Without Sully to organise everything, or even Gabrielle, the crew only finished packing down in Austin at four a.m.. We were barely done in time to catch our plane.
Last night was awful, but seeing Dodger waiting for me in the lobby makes a little of the stress melt away. He takes my case from me and guides the two of us into the elevator. The second we’re alone, I bury my face in his neck and take a deep lungful of his freshly showered scent.
“I know you’re tired, baby girl,” he murmurs against my hair. “But we need you to find those cameras before we go to sleep, okay? Emma’s staying on our couch, and we don’t feel comfortable having Miguel watching her.”
I nod quietly against his hoodie, yawning. It won’t take long, and I no longer care if someone alerts Miguel to the missing footage.
This is the last city he’ll ever see.
The doors ping open, and I freeze at the sobbing coming from the room ahead.
This latest hotel suite is larger than the others, and the guys have scored the penthouse, with views of the urban skyline beyond. Arlo is in the kitchen, rummaging in the refrigerator for something while Slate comforts Emma on the sofa. Prophet stands behind the two of them like a silent, protective gargoyle, not saying anything.
Emma does her best to dry her face as she notices me, but her crying has ruined her makeup, making the bruise decorating her face painfully obvious.
Who hit her?Anger eclipses my tiredness, and I carefully extract myself from Dodger’s arms, digging my phone out of my purse and flicking open the app. I know, from habit, the most likely places to look for bugs—curtains, fans, mirrors, picture frames—but the app will ensure I don’t miss anything.
“What is she doing?” Emma asks, as I climb on the table and start straining for the ceiling fan.
“Ompf,” I grunt as Prophet strides over, lifting me onto his shoulder so I can reach easier.
One down.
“She’s getting rid of all the cameras,” Arlo explains quietly. “Miguel has our rooms bugged, and I don’t want you sleeping in here if he’s watching you.”
Emma nods shakily. “Okay.” She pauses. “This has something to do with her gun, right?”
I hold my hand up in the universal signal forwaitand direct Prophet across the room. Only when I’m sure that every single room in the suite is clear do I tap his shoulder to set me down.
“Right,” I begin, dragging my case over to the table and unzipping it. “Full disclosure: I’m an assassin, and I’ve been hired to kill the Rosales brothers.” I plonk my laptop down and flick the screen open before returning to my bag. “All three of them will be dead by this time tomorrow.” I grab a new baby bot and plug it into the laptop to begin a software update. “And after that, you will be free to live your life however you please.”
Emma doesn’t even look surprised. In fact, she recovers a little of her lost composure at the news. “Good. I was wondering when you’d turn up.”
The band, who were steeling themselves for her reaction, are completely stunned by her nonchalant acceptance of my answer. I’m not.
