Page 65 of Deep (Chicago Underground 8)
“Why are we here?” I asked, not leaving the comfort of the sedan. There was a shiny new Rolls Royce and a vintage Shelby in his garages, but he had chosen to drive a nondescript black town car. That was worrying, because it meant we weren’t going on a date or a nice drive in the country. It meant we were going to do something illegal.
“Stay close,” he said, turning to walk away before I could answer.
Shivering, I stepped into the cool night and closed the door behind me. The sound of it reverberated through my bones. The bottom of my sneaker slipped on slick gravel before I righted myself. Philip was almost to the warehouse side door before I caught up with him.
The door swung open, revealing a man in a black T-shirt that stretched over tight muscles and black cargo pants. His eyes were flat and cold. He was muscle. A mercenary.
Behind him I had the impression of tables loaded high and crates stacked in corners. Of other men like him, waiting. They were too far in shadows to see.
The mercenary was similar to Raine in the way he studied me, except this man wasn’t evaluating me for my value—he was evaluating me as a threat. Apparently finding none he turned to Philip. “We’re ready to go.”
“The courthouse?” Philip asked as if confirming.
The man nodded. “He’s working late.”
“Good,” Philip said. “Ella here needs to see this. Wouldn’t want his pristine reputation destroyed by the truth.”
The tone mocked me a hundred different ways—for being weak, for hav
ing morals. For having a father who had something to hide. But I didn’t even have time to be offended. I was too caught up in what would happen next. “Wait. We’re going to…question someone?”
That was probably a polite term for what would really happen. A shakedown. Torture.
The men ignored me.
“Three around back, two in front,” the mercenary said. “Three in with you. Clean entry, clean exit.”
“Of course,” Philip said, somehow managing to imply a threat even though the man in front of us probably had five different weapons strapped to his body right now. And he would know how to use them.
Philip would only hire the best.
But he also managed to command respect from the scariest criminals in Chicago.
The man inclined his head in both agreement and deference. “The girl?”
“She comes with me,” Philip said.
“The girl has a name,” I cut in, annoyed. “And she doesn’t like being ignored. Where are we going?”
The mercenary’s expression remained impassive, but I thought I saw a flicker of surprise in his cold eyes. He even seemed a little impressed. Nice to meet you too.
Philip and the mercenary were both packed with muscles and weapons and years of experience committing violent acts. I had experience with surviving when people tried to kill me, of shouting when people tried to silence me—of staring back, unflinching, into the face of evil.
You know, we all had our strengths.
Philip turned to me, eyes narrowed. “You wanted me to find your brother. What did you think I was going to do? Put his picture on a fucking milk carton?”
“I want you to tell me where we’re going and what we’re doing. I want you to tell me who we’re going to see. And what I want most is for you to treat me like an equal.”
Philip turned to the man. “Load up. We leave in five.”
The man studied me, something like respect in his flat eyes. Then he turned and shut the door behind us, leaving us alone—for five minutes, apparently.
Then Philip’s hands were on my arms. My back slammed into the rough metal wall—my head would have too, but his hand was there, catching me, sliding down to my neck, tilting my face up to his.
“Let’s get this straight,” he murmured. “We are not equals. I am the bars and you are inside me, trapped here, and I’m never fucking letting you go. You can touch me, you can fight me. But you can’t ever leave.”
My heart thumped in something like acknowledgment. It made me angry. “Hurt me, then. If you’re so bent on scaring me, on keeping me low.”
