I seriously doubted that.
“What? Who knows? Maybe you loosen up enough we might find that sisterly bond you were always whining about,” Tina said, slapping my thigh with what might have been affection. “But first, we gotta get this business taken care of.”
I held up my handcuffed hands. “What kind of business can I take care of with sex cuffs on?”
She reached into the pocket of her door and produced a set of keys. “Here’s the thing. Need you to do me a favor.”
“Anything for you, Tina,” I said dryly.
“I bet my man a hundred dollars I could get you here without knocking you out or forcing you. Told him you were a natural-born sucker. He said there was no way I could get you to march on in there all free will and shit. So here’s how this is gonna go. I’m gonna uncuff you and take you upstairs to my man and kid. You’re not gonna tell him about these.” She ruffled the purple leopard fur on the cuff closest to her.
My sister was an idiot.
“If I uncuff you and you try to run or if you open your tattletale mouth up there, I’ll make sure you never see Waylay again.”
An idiot with a surprising grasp of what motivated people.
She grinned. “Yeah. I knew you’d like her. Figured she’d like you too, seein’ as how you’re into all that girlie shit. Knew you’d be the best place to park my kid till I was ready to hit the road.”
“Waylay’s a great girl,” I said.
“She ain’t some whiny tattletale like some people,” she said, shooting me a pointed look. “Anyway, I win my bet, you get to spend some quality time with the kid before we head off to our payday.”
She wanted to take Waylay with her. I felt an icy sickness settle in my gut but said nothing.
“We got a deal?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Yes. We have a deal.”
“Let’s get me my hundred bucks,” Tina said cheerfully.
I counted three more swarthy degenerates, all with guns, inside the warehouse. The first floor had nearly a dozen flashy vehicles parked inside. Some were under tarps, some sat with their hoods up and doors open. On the other side of the loading dock were boxes of TVs and what looked like other stolen goods.
It was cold, and I wasn’t dressed for it.
“Let’s go, Goody. Got shit to do,” Tina said, leading the way up the metal stairs to the second floor, an area that looked like it had once housed offices.
My sister threw open the door and strutted inside. “Mama’s home,” she announced.
I hesitated outside the door and sent up a silent prayer to the good twin gods. I was scared. I would have given anything to have Knox or Nash or the entire Knockemout Police Department with me. But that wasn’t going to happen.
I needed to be my own hero tonight or I was going to lose everything.
I straightened my shoulders and crossed the threshold to do what I did best, triage the mess. There was heat inside, thank God. Not much, but enough that at least my lady parts wouldn’t freeze. There was also a distinct odor of old takeout food, most likely coming from the stack of pizza boxes and to-go containers on a long folding table.
Dingy glass windows overlooked the warehouse floor and the exterior. Against a third wall was a futon topped with what looked like very expensive sheets and no fewer than six pillows.
There were two rolling racks of designer clothing that created a makeshift closet. A dozen pairs of high-end men’s sneakers and loafers were organized on another folding table.
The floor was sticky. The ceiling had holes in it. And there was a thick layer of grime on the windows.
I itched to find the Lysol and start scrubbing until I spotted the table stacked nearly a foot high with bundles of cash.
“Told ya,” Tina said triumphantly, hooking her thumb in my direction. “Walked right in, didn’t she?”
I stopped short when I recognized the man in the large, leather office chair in front of the flat-screen TV.
It was the red-haired guy from the library and Honky Tonk. Only this time, he wasn’t dressed to blend in. He was wearing a flashy pair of jeans and a bright orange Balenciaga hoodie.
He was rubbing a cloth over an already gleaming handgun.
I gulped.
“Well, well. If it isn’t my old lady’s doppelganger. Remember me?” he said with a villainous smirk.
“Mr. Flint,” I said.
Tina snorted. “His name’s Duncan. Duncan Hugo. As in the Hugo crime syndicate.”
She was bragging, making him sound as if she’d just told me she was dating a sexy humanitarian lawyer or an orthodontist with a beach house.