Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33658 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33658 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Alexander studies me several calculating beats. “If I give you this information and you make a contact, I want a piece of the action.”
I smirk. “If I make a contact?”
“I’ve got a location, and that’s it,” he says. “But it took some serious bullying to get it.” His lips lift as he adds, “I like to be prepared for occasions such as this one. But if you go to this place, opportunity may or may not present itself. But I’ll have someone nearby. Someone watching. I’ll know if you make contact. I’ll expect to be paid.”
“I’ve always paid, and paid well, for information,” I remind him, which is true. The Renegades have deep-pocket funding, in part from Renegades such as Creed and Maddox, who were born with silver spoons. “Why would that change now?”
“What’s your ‘take’ on this deal?” Alexander inquires, a keen look in his blue eyes.
I hesitate intentionally, playing the negotiation game expected of me. Not an easy task when I want to shake Alexander until he tells me what I want to know. “Fifty Gs.”
Alexander arches a brow. “I’ll take thirty.”
I snort and fix Alexander in an “are you whacked?” look. “And the real number is…?”
“We both know you didn’t tell me your full price,” Alexander counters. “You lowered the number. I want thirty, or you get nothing from me.”
I whistle, putting on a show. “That’s steep, you greedy sonofabitch.”
“Not when you’re talking about stockpiling something as hot and impossible to find as ICE. So, take it,” he says, folding his arms in front of his chest, “or leave it.”
“I get the location now. Tonight.”
“I get a retainer now, or no deal,” Alexander counters.
I reach in my pocket and drop a wad of cash secured in a money clip on the desk. “That’s ten. I figured that would be enough to get you one of those fancy manicures you like so much.”
Alexander laughs, noticeably relaxing. “I don’t know who’s a bigger asshole. You or me.”
“I like to think we have our own brand of assholeness,” I say dryly. “You’re the suit-wearing, talk-down-to-you, and then bust-your-wallet-in-the-balls kind of asshole. I’m the dirty-boxing, back-alley kind of asshole. Now, where am I going?”
“When do I get the rest of my money?”
“When I get the ICE.”
Alexander considers me a moment. “Don’t fuck me over, Jensen.”
“Back at you, asshole,” I reply snidely. “You have my ten grand.”
“Nebula,” he says, naming the newest addition to the club scene, located inside a competing casino property, before giving my attire of jeans and a T-shirt a once-over. “You might want to make sure to blend with the crowd. It’s not your typical Vegas hot spot. This place is more leather and chains than denim.”
“And here I thought you might come with me,” I say dryly. I shrug. “Too bad.” The tension between us evaporates. He trusts me. He shouldn’t. I tolerate him to rid this city of the stench he knows all too well. “Later, Alexander,” I say, already at the door.
“Bring us both back some money, Jensen.”
I wave, but I don’t look back. I’m done with him.
I’m going after Layla, who’s smart enough to end up in the location where she finds ICE. Where I find her.
Chapter twenty-two
Jensen
To hell with changing clothes to fit into some goth-themed drug bar. By eleven thirty, I’m standing in the far corner of the smoke-filled, three-story portion of the Empire Tower Casino’s Club Nebula, nursing a beer for show and thinking of that moment when I’d handed Layla over to Maddox. It had been Maddox. I’m sure of it.
Hadn’t it?
If not, what fuckery was Zodius up to right now?
Either way, there’s a reason I’m alone tonight. I’m not risking Maddox finding out my plan and turning on me again.
Nonchalantly, I tilt back my beer again, studying the far corner by the bar where two punkers—one with a Mohawk and the other with a spiked ’do—are talking with a woman. One of the punkers partially blocks my view. A glimpse of long black hair, and I set the beer down with a thud, waiting for a better line of sight, hoping like hell it’s Layla, which is insane. It won’t be this easy. I’m making myself crazy. This place is crawling with goth-black hairdos.
“Hey, sugar,” a purring female voice greets me as a raven-haired beauty shoves up close to my chair, nuzzling her ample breasts on my arm. A dealer—that’s the buzz in the bar. The ICE dealers are all hot chicks that size you up and decide who gets what or nothing at all. Apparently, the dealers sampled the goods because this one has the eyes of a repeat user—bloodshot, unusual with dilated pupils, the dark ridge around the eyeballs wider. I wonder if Layla’s eyes will look like this after a few more doses, or if they already do. If she’s even alive.