Page 32 of Redemption
Marco overhears my quiet statement. “It’s quite wonderful not to deal in death, brother,” he replies.
“That’s a privilege I didn’t get, growing up on the streets. Only the strong and smart survive. The more ruthless you are, the less people will try to fuck you over, take what’s yours, or think you’re an easy target to kill.”
“You don’t have to justify who you are to me. I understand that though we may be blood, our environments forged us into very different men.” He reaches out a hand to squeeze my shoulder. “I am just happy that you survived.”
“I’ll be happy when I survive today,” I tell him. “I don’t ever take that for granted.”
I pull into a parking lot and guide the car into a spot. As I shift the Camry into park, I turn in my seat to face him. “This is what we’re going to do …”
Chapter Fifteen
Mount
The outboard motor on the johnboat sputters predictably as I maneuver it into a shadow not far from the coordinates I sent Leo.
Having a conversation in the middle of the Mighty Mississippi might not be the norm for others, but I use every resource I have at my disposal. My creativity has kept me alive in more complicated situations than this. But I know better than anyone that I can never let my guard down. There is no easy, safe meet with anyone. Not when you’re Lachlan Mount.
I’ve spent my whole life looking over my shoulder. Staying alive has always been my top priority—at least until Keira and then Aurora came into my life. Now, they are my world. And keeping them safe and alive matters more than anything, including my own personal safety. I would throw myself into a hail of bullets without a single thought if it meant that Aurora and Keira could live free from fear of being kidnapped—or worse.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect my wife and daughter. Nothing.
Whatever information Leo has, it had better be as important as he says. The last thing I want to do today is shower off more of his nephew’s blood. I just want to go home to my wife, kiss my daughter’s sweet face, and forget this day ever happened. With that last thought of them, I put them out of my mind.
I can’t chance being distracted for even a single second of this meeting. Leo Marchand is no fool. He was right when he said he wouldn’t have gotten this rich or stayed alive this long in his business if he was stupid.
But still, I can’t imagine what the kid overheard to make him think that trying to kill me was a good idea. The chills from earlier haven’t left my awareness. It feels like something big is coming, and it’s not a welcome feeling.
At least now, I’ll know.
Knowledge is power. That’s always the damn truth. Even when it’s things you wish you didn’t have to know.
I glance down at the battered Rolex on my wrist. It’s been through hell with me, and I refuse to lay it to rest. It’s a reminder of all I’ve faced and survived against odds that were never in my favor. I remember telling Keira once that I wanted it to be buried with me. That didn’t go over well. She doesn’t like to talk about the possibility of me dying.
Stop thinking about her.
I have to force myself to return my attention to the water. At precisely 6:09 p.m., an old shrimping trawler chugs up the river and slows at the coordinates I sent Leo.
“At least the French bastard is punctual,” I murmur to myself as I wait for him to drop anchor. As soon as the metal hits the water, I notice a white flag flying off the stern, where the boat would normally fly the flag it sails under.
A rough chuckle escapes my lips. “Surrender or parley, I wonder?”
With a hand on the outboard, I tug the longshoreman cap over my brow and putter up to the stern of the boat.
“Permission to come aboard for parley?” I call out, hoping against all hope that Leo followed my instructions to the letter and came alone.
“Permission granted. You’re welcome aboard with no reservations. The rules of parley are in effect aboard this vessel.”
Glancing up at the tower where my brother sits as my sniper, I grab the coiled line at my side and toss it up to where that fancy fucker Leo stands.
“A three-piece suit aboard a shrimp boat? That’s gotta be a first.”
“My father always taught me to dress for the job I wanted, not the job I had,” he replies with a trace of his French accent. “Shrimp boat or luxury yacht, a pocket watch always seems like an appropriate accessory.”
“Only you, Marchand. Only you.”
He ties off the line on the cleat at the starboard end of the stern. “I trust you can make your own way up the ladder.”
With one last thought thanking no one in particular that my brother has my back, I reach for the metal rungs screwed into the wooden transom of the boat. “I got it. Just don’t make me fucking kill you when I get up there.”
