Lacey looks less than happy with me for abandoning her, but she nods. She enters the apartment without a fuss—a minor miracle—and I’m free to go check on my captive.

He’s exactly where I left him, except now he’s very washed out and a considerable pool of blood has turned the concrete sticky and black. His eyes are wild and furious when they lock on me. “You said you were coming right back, pendejo. Your time is nearly up.”

With the bullshit I’ve already been through today, this guy’s dirty mood isn’t going to make my own improve any. I send him a sideways glance that would probably have made someone like Rick Lamfetti shit his chinos. It’s then I recall the reason I left Andreas in the first place; why I went back to the car earlier. My bag. My tools. My original duffel is still in the back of the Camaro. I have another just like it upstairs in the bottom of the wardrobe in my bedroom, but right now I have nothing down here. I’m at a loss once more. I have no means of forcing Andreas to talk other than with my fists, and Andreas strikes me as the sort of person who can take a beating. Someone who would suffer through it in silence, spitting out their teeth one by one, taking hit after hit and still stubbornly refusing to part with a word. No, I’ll need more than my fists to get Cade’s location out of this motherfucker.

I give him a chance to prove me wrong. To save us both a lot of time and energy and blood. “Where’s the Widow Maker, Andreas?”

Andreas sucks on his teeth, leans forward as far as he can on his chair, and spits onto the floor. “I’m not telling you shit, ese. Not a fucking chance on this earth.”

I stand and stare at him for a long, tension-packed moment. Three months ago, fuck, one month ago there’s a very specific way I would have handled this situation. I would have let loose the anger boiling inside me on this person; I would have allowed a very dark and dangerous side of myself free rein in order to get what I wanted. There would have been a considerable amount of blood, sweat, and probably some tears thrown into the mix—none of it mine—and I would either have gotten the information I needed, or Andreas Medina would be dead.

A part of me is considering that option even know, wanting to get the ball rolling, but then again another part of me, a side of me that’s been having his way more and more often lately, won’t allow it.

I’d like, in some small way, to say that I can’t torture Andreas Medina to breaking point because I am a reformed man, and I don’t want to hurt people anymore. There is an element of truth in that—I’ve never relished or enjoyed causing harm to others. I don’t do it for fun, and I am steering clear of that course of action as often as I can now—but the truth is I’m stopping myself because of Sloane. She’s never told me to quit my line of work, but I know her well enough to realize going on a killing spree is gonna drive a pretty large wedge between us. Highly inconvenient. There’s nothing else for it; I shrug my shoulders. “Okay.” I turn and make to leave.

“What, you’re just gonna let your buddy die, punk? Julio’s gonna tear your boy into tiny pieces and you’re just gonna walk away from me?”

The panic in Andreas’ voice all but confirms what I suspect—Medina is playing a delicate bluffing game with me. Julio won’t kill Cade. Or at least he won’t kill him tonight. Rebel will know one of his guys is missing by now, either because Cade hasn’t checked in or because Michael’s had chance to call or message him. He’ll have already been on to Julio, making it perfectly clear what will happen if a single hair on the head of the Widow Maker’s VP is harmed. Julio won’t do anything to damage the relationship he shares with Rebel unless it’s a desperate situation, and having one of his men vanish for less than twenty-four hours hardly qualifies just yet. Or at least that’s what I’m hoping. Cade’s life depends on it.

I look Medina in the eye, letting a sharp smile spread across my face. “Yes. I’m just gonna walk away.” And so I go. I walk out of the room, lock the door, walk down the corridor, and out into the underground parking lot once more. My heart’s working double time when I reach the “borrowed” Chevy; I hope I made the right fucking decision. If my friend dies horrifically because I’m going soft, then I will never forgive myself. I won’t be able to. My phone starts buzzing as I’m waiting for the elevator. I pull it out, inhaling sharply when I see that it’s Michael. Why the hell would he be calling if he knows I’m just down in the basement?

“What’s up?” The elevator doors open, but I don’t go in. I hold them open with the toe of my boot, waiting to hear what Michael has to say.

“Forget whatever business you’re conducting right now and get back up here, man,” he says.

“Why? What is it? What?”

“Sloane,” he says, exhaling her name in a stressed sigh. “Sloane got shot.”

I go still. “What did you just say?”

“Sloane got shot,” he repeats. “Don’t lose your shit, though. She’s fine. She was hit in the arm, but she lost a lot of blood. I just think it would be better if you were up here instead of down there right now.”

Sloane. Got. Shot.

“What the fuck?” It doesn’t matter that Michael says she’s fine. I won’t believe it until I see her with my own eyes. “I’m coming. Give us some space,” I say, and end the call. For the whole journey in the elevator, my body doesn’t feel like it’s my own. It feels foreign and numb, unwilling to cooperate with me. For the first time since I was a kid, for the first time since my uncle dared to raise his fist to me, I feel panic. A pure, bottomless panic that hollows me out and robs me of any fucking sense. Sloane. Got. Shot. I’m already planning what I’m going to do to the person responsible by the time I reach the apartment door.