Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide by AJ Elmore (grave mercy .TXT) 📗

Finally the ringing stops. There’s a moment of hesitation, then Freddy says, “Yeah?”

“Josh has been shot. I’m taking him to Our Sisters.”

I can hear the waver in my own voice, so I know Frederick can hear it, too. Maybe he’s wondering why I called him. Maybe he knows I will always call him first when the world crashes down.

Another stretch of silence, and he says, “I’ll meet you there."

Chapter 24 The Dagger

Frederick

There are a lot of thoughts steamrolling through my brain as I step through the metal detector of hospital security. The loudest one is how naked I feel without a weapon. The machine doesn’t make a sound as I step through.

The guard who hands me back the keys to my bike is probably younger than me. He’s as green as the stuff I’ve been smoking. My eyes are so dry I had to switch from contacts to my glasses. He stutters when I answer him with a hard stare.

I navigate the halls by reading the signs. The harsh lighting grates on my already agitated nerves. I do appreciate that the staff is too wrapped up in their duties to really look at me. I don’t want to seem approachable.

She took him in at the E.R., but her name bears enough weight here that they’ve relocated her to a small, lesser-used waiting room nearby. Nobody stops me from going in.

I routinely check a room as I enter. Even here, I do a full scan. There’s a middle-aged couple to my right. A teenaged girl sits beside them, phone in hand. Her bored eyes lock onto me as soon as I cross the threshold, and they follow me all the way to the far left corner where Maria sits.

Damn. Not the best hope for an entrance. The girl quickly averts her eyes when I throw a glance at her. She’s not important, except that there’s no way to talk here without being heard.

When I look back, Maria is watching my last few steps. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry. Her shirt and jeans shorts have dark, dried blood on them. Her face, arms, and hands are clean. Her frame is still, her jaw tense.

One look at her and I know that she has cycled through emotional responses, and has landed on a cold fury. This is a point pushed beyond her usual fiery disposition. This is a dangerous place, volatile. It’s the kind of thing that leads to blazing buildings.

Her gaze follows me as I sit in the chair to her right, but she doesn’t move. She watches sideways as I complete the corner.

“What news?” I ask, nearly a whisper.

“He’s in emergency surgery,” she answers. Her voice and posture don’t shake, so I’d guess the first round of acceptance has been reached.

“And Abuela?”

“Doesn’t know,” she says in Spanish.

My eyebrows lift without any input from me. It’s the sort of reaction I usually stop before motion. This time, there’s no chance.

Her expression goes flat, and she says, “Of course I called you first.”

She switches languages so fluidly that it’s hard to differentiate. Sometimes I think she doesn’t notice when she does it. I grew up learning both, too. But it occurs to me that the family over there probably didn’t.

A heavy sigh drains from me. I’m not usually the kind to express myself with sighs of any kind, but it’s the only way to vent off some pressure without saying too much in a situation I don’t fully understand. Damn it. I hate hospitals.

My attention shifts to the phone I’m pulling out of my pocket. Muscle memory guides me to the call options. Then I’m staring at the floor as the line rings in my ear, and I’m trying not to think too much.

It’s late, and this is a direct line. I’ve had her number for just a few days.

“Si.”

In Spanish, I say, “We have a man down. I’m on my way to see our sisters now.”

Silence looms on the other end for an exaggerated while, then she says, “Quién?”

It’s my turn for silence as I glance at Maria. She’s watching me like a hunting wolf.

“Josué.”

More quiet tension. I can’t hear any noise in her background, and she must notice the same for me.

“Report to me in person when you are finished there.”

It’s not surprising that she wouldn’t ask for details on the phone, or that her voice is so steady and emotionless. Still, there’s something in the way she’s responding. My gut says she’s been expecting a call like this, and I can’t quite explain why I would think that.

“Dónde?” I ask, hoping that she doesn’t say the plantation.

“The garden,” she answers. Code for the mansion in the Garden District. She’s been spending a lot of time there lately, probably due to the big deal she’s been proffering.

“Entiendo.”

The line goes dead. I draw a long breath to steel myself against the fact that I just lied to Abuela. I don’t need to look to know that the young girl is watching with keen interest now. I can feel her attention branding both Maria and me. It doesn’t help that there’s literally nothing else happening here. The TV is even on mute, and her parents have a far-away, exhausted sheen that says they don’t have the capacity to care about strangers.

I choose to ignore her. What else can I do? Try to covertly intimidate her? No way in hell.

Another long breath steadies me, then I quietly say, “I need to know what happened.”

A torrent of Spanish tears from Maria, so quickly it nearly clips my words, so fast I can barely keep up. Her voice rises several times so that I’m sure even the parents must be watching now. The same tremor in her voice that I heard on the phone is present now. Every sentence is heavily punctuated by cursing. She’s near hysterical.

As quickly as it began, she’s done. I let