The Risk: Kings of Linwood Academy #3 Page 19

  “No, actually. We just wanted to ask a question about this receipt.” Lincoln takes the piece of paper from River, who’s standing close behind him, Dax right by his side. Linc slaps the document down on the counter lightly, and the sound of his palm hitting the worn wood almost makes me jump.

  Fuck. Get it together, Low.

  “Yeah? What about it?”

  The guy doesn’t seem all that interested—at least, not until he leans over and looks at the receipt. Then his posture changes immediately, a subtle shift that makes my stomach clench with nerves. When he looks back up, every trace of boredom is gone from his face.

  “Seems a little high for a refund,” Linc says, and I can’t believe how fucking calm he sounds right now.

  The guy behind the counter doesn’t respond to that. His expression is neutral, but the tense lines of his body haven’t eased. He’s watching. Waiting.

  “We have a message for Niles D’Amato.” Lincoln raps his knuckles against the paper. “About the man he gave this too. Does Niles know Hollowell’s running for office?”

  The guy still doesn’t fucking move or speak. He’s like a black hole, taking everything in but giving nothing back. No sign of what he’s thinking, no sign he’s even heard us.

  But Linc continues talking as if the man and he are having a perfectly normal, two-sided conversation. I wonder fleetingly if this is from all the years he’s spent watching his dad negotiate high stakes business deals, or if it’s just something innate in Lincoln’s DNA—this ability to project an aura of complete control even if he doesn’t actually have it.

  “We thought he might be interested to know what platform the judge is running on. Does he know that Hollowell is telling private donors the crowning achievement of his term in office will be wiping out the D’Amato drug ring?”

  More silence greets Linc’s words.

  Then the man moves.

  The sudden motion after so much stillness is unnerving, like seeing a statue come to life. His hand slides across the counter and picks up the piece of paper Linc set down, raising it to eye level so he can look at it again.

  He goes still again, and just his eyes shift our way as he says, “Come with me.”

  He doesn’t wait to see if we’ll respond, just turns and heads through a little door to the back of the shop. This guy has a whole different type of power vibe than any of the kings do. His power is in stillness, in blankness. In a nonchalance so intense it makes my skin prickle.

  As if he could kill all of us without a moment’s hesitation or a single regret.

  That’s the less-than-comforting thought that fills my mind as we all follow the man into the back. Lincoln leads, Chase grips my hand so hard I swear I can hear my bones creak, and Dax sticks to River’s side like glue.

  The man is several paces ahead of us by the time we clear the small door and head down the hallway that leads farther back into the shop. He passes what looks like a small office and turns left, leading us through a locked door and down another corridor. I try not to look around too much, certain that everything I see puts me in danger of having seen too much, but it dawns on me as we keep walking that we’re probably now in the back of one of the shops next door.

  It’s smart, in a way. At least one of the buildings next to the cleaner is a front too, providing an additional layer of cover for the people who do business here.

  We come to a halt outside another large, steel office door, and the man knocks twice with his knuckles. Then he opens the door and jerks his head to indicate we should step inside.

  No turning back now.

  22

  My skin chills as we cross the threshold into the room, as if there’s some kind of invisible barrier we pass through as we enter. There isn’t, I know that, but there might as well be.

  There really is no turning back now. No slapping our foreheads and saying, “whoops, wrong dry cleaner.” We’re in this until it’s over, however it might end.

  The office is large, almost the size of the entire dry cleaning storefront, and the dominant piece of furniture is a large cherry wood desk. A man who’s probably in his fifties sits behind it, closing a laptop as he glances up at us. We’re obviously not what he was expecting to see, because his head jerks back slightly as his eyebrows twitch.

  He’s got the kind of face that almost forces you to think it’s handsome. Not attractive by any traditional measures, but with such strong, dominant features that it’s hard not to be a little overwhelmed.

  I don’t know who he was expecting to see in his office on a Monday afternoon, but it definitely wasn’t us. He shoots a curious, almost accusatory glance at the guy who led us in, as if already chastising him for wasting his time, but before he can speak, the guy holds up a hand.

  “They’ve got an interesting story about Hollowell. Thought you should hear it.”

  Niles D’Amato has a definite reaction to that, but I can’t quite tell what it is. It almost looks like… resignation.

  Was he expecting this? Has he been suspicious that Hollowell would fuck him over?

  The man from the front counter walks over and slaps the paper down on Niles’s desk almost exactly like Lincoln did with it earlier. Then he glances toward us.

  “Tell him what you told me.”

  Linc repeats his story, his demeanor as calm and controlled as ever. When he’s done, he gives a small shrug. “We just thought you’d want to know. Before he was elected.”

  Niles’s dark eyes glitter like obsidian as he nods slowly. His gaze shifts from Lincoln to the rest of us, sizing up our motley little crew. He doesn’t ask how the four of us came by this information. I have a feeling the receipt we gave them, which he clearly recognized as his own, helps validate the rest of our story. We’re not lying about what we found, so why would we lie about what we know?

  His slow perusal lands on me last, and I do my best to channel Linc’s aura of calm, even though I can feel Chase vibrating with tension beside me. He doesn’t like the way Niles is looking at me, and to be honest, neither do I. I’ve read books with anti-heroes who have strict codes of honor, who have no problem killing their enemies but would never consider raping a woman… but there’s no guarantee at all that Niles is that kind of “honorable villain”.

  It’s entirely possible he’s just a bad, bad man.

  My muscles tense, but I surprise myself by standing up taller instead of shrinking under his stare. My jaw locks and my lips press into a hard line as I glare almost challengingly back at him.

  If he tries to touch me, the kings won’t let him. And I can’t risk them getting hurt trying to protect me. So the only thing to do is to make sure Niles doesn’t even attempt it.

  His eyebrows draw together a little as he notices the shift in my posture, but finally, his gaze moves back to Lincoln.

  “And you know this, how?”

  Ah. I guess he isn’t prepared to just take us at our word.

  “I know someone who donated to his campaign, and that was the promise Hollowell gave him. It’s what he’s using to sell himself.”

  He doesn’t mention that the someone is his dad, and I’m glad. Mr. Black might be a philanderer and a fuckup, but like Linc said, he’s not the kind of guy to get involved in truly bad shit. And as much as Linc might hate him sometimes, I know there’s a part of him that still loves his dad. He has no problem letting him fend for himself when it comes to his reputation among his wealthy friends, but that’s an entirely different thing than giving Samuel’s name to a known drug trafficker.

  Niles curses under his breath, in a language that doesn’t sound like English. I have no idea where he’s from—his words have no accent—but I can’t pick out a single thing he just said.

  I can get the gist of it though, and the nicest way to put it is that he’s not happy.

  “That son of a bitch.” He pushes to his feet as he switches back to English, shaking his head. “After what we did for him. Ungrateful. Disgraceful.”

  He contin
ues muttering as he reaches into his desk drawer, and when he pulls out a large black handgun, my blood goes icy cold. The kings and I unconsciously move closer to each other, forming a tight knot as Niles glances past us. When I shoot a look over my shoulder, I realize the man who led us in here has stepped in front of the door, blocking our way out—and he also has a gun drawn.

  My hand has gone numb in Chase’s. I can’t even feel my fingers, but I don’t think it matters because I couldn’t unclench my grip if I tried.

  Fuck.

  Are they about to kill us just for coming here? Just for knowing too much?

  My skin prickles everywhere, anticipation of a bullet tearing through my flesh making me feel queasy and weak-limbed.

  But no bullet comes.

  Niles steps around the desk, his weapon still grasped loosely in his hand. I recognize it from my one time at a shooting range as a nine millimeter, but that knowledge does nothing to make me less terrified.

  “If he’s doing what you say he’s doing, that’s a very big problem,” Niles says evenly, his tone as calm as if he were explaining to a waiter that his soup is too cold.

  Jesus. What do these men do with all their repressed emotions?

  “But since you have no proof,” the man continues, dark gaze flicking over all of us again. “We need to go have a little talk with him to see what’s what. And you’re coming with us.”

  For the first time, I see Lincoln’s facade of calm crack. He shakes his head, starting to move forward, but my free hand whips out and latches onto his wrist. I don’t speak, but the touch is enough.

  He stops.

  I can see him—feel him—vibrating with tension, but holds perfectly still until Niles waves his gun toward the door, indicating that we should step out.

  While we were in their leader’s office, two more armed men positioned themselves outside the door, and now they flank us, guiding us down the hallway and out the back of the building. There are several dark SUVs parked out back, and all of them have tinted windows.

  Another two men join us as the guy from behind the counter goes back inside. That makes it five on five, except every one of the men surrounding us is muscled and bulky—and most importantly, armed.

  When they separate us to load us into two different vehicles, I start to shake like a leaf in a fucking hurricane. Dax and Linc are ushered into one, the doors slammed after them, and then Chase, River, and I are put into another.

  I’m sandwiched between the two boys in the middle row of seats, but I can’t take comfort in their presence when we’re missing two of our group, and I can’t see through the fucking windows of the other car.

  I can’t see.

  Goddammit, I can’t see.

  Acid burns up my throat as Niles and two of his men stand between the two cars, talking in low voices. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Niles is finally showing some emotion. He looks pissed about something, and I don’t like it one bit.

  Then they split. Two men pile into our car, and Niles and the other two slide into the car where Lincoln and Dax are.

  I catch a brief glimpse of Dax’s profile as the door opens and closes, then both cars’ engines rumble to life.

  The other one pulls out first, driving down a narrow alley, and we follow behind. My gaze shifts to the door next to Chase, wondering if we’d stand a chance of escape if we yanked the car door open and threw ourselves out of the vehicle.

  Chase’s worried blue-green gaze catches mine, and it’s clear he was thinking the same thing. It’s also obvious we both came to the same conclusion at the same time.

  No.

  Trying to run will only get us hunted down.

  River squeezes my hand, his grip tightening, and when I look over at him, his face is pale, his expression tight. There’s something stark and blank in his eyes, and when he notices me gazing at him, he shakes his head. He repeats the gesture a second later, his gaze darting up to the man in the driver’s seat. There’s a man behind us too, and I know his gun is still in his hand.

  I wrinkle my brow, giving a little headshake of my own to let River know I’m not understanding whatever message he’s trying to send me.

  This time, his gaze flicks to the man behind us. Then he angles his head just slightly so it’s tilted a little toward me, but the man in the back seat can’t see his face. His lips move, but no sound comes out.

  He’s mouthing words.

  What the hell is he saying?

  My whole body aches with tension as I keep my head turned toward the front of the car too, straining so hard to see out of the corner of my eyes that it hurts.

  River’s lips move again, repeating the phrase twice, and this time, I think I pick up a word in the middle.

  Going.

  Going where?

  Going to what?

  Jesus, if I were River, I would’ve figured out exactly what he’s saying already. Stifling my irritation and frustration with my lack of lip-reading ability, I shift my head just a fraction, giving myself a slightly clearer view of his mouth.

  Something fierce and determined burns in his eyes, and he slows down his silent speech, forming each word slowly and carefully.

  And finally, I get it. I piece it together, one word after the next, until the meaning of the entire thing becomes clear.

  They’re not going to let us live.

  23

  They’re not going to let us live.

  River’s unspoken words echo like a shout in my mind, and a weird sort of numbness floods me. It’s different than shock, different than the way I felt after Iris died, when it almost seemed like I was outside my own body.

  This feels more like the anticipation of death, like my body is testing out what “nothingness” feels like, trying it on for size.

  Preparing for the inevitable.

  His gray eyes are still watching me, and I can see regret churning in his irises, like he’s wishing for a dozen different impossible things right now.

  He mouths one more phrase, and maybe it’s because my lip-reading skills have improved, or maybe it’s just that my soul already knows what he’s going to say, but I get this one on the first try.

  I love you.

  An awful blend of happiness and acute pain make my chest cavity feel too small, and I give him the smallest of nods.

  He loves me. This beautiful, exceptional, complicated boy loves me. So do his three best friends.

  I wish I had more fucking time to appreciate that.

  But the one thing we don’t have much of anymore is time. Judge Hollowell’s house is clear on the other side of Fox Hill from the dry cleaner storefront, but we reach it way too fast anyway. Niles’s people pull up to the curb several houses away from Hollowell’s, and the man in the front of our SUV turns around, gun leveled at us.

  “Out.”

  He and his compatriot watch us carefully as the two boys and I clamber out of the car. Behind us, Linc and Dax do the same, and I catch Lincoln’s eye. I wish I could tell him what River just told me. I wish we could talk for just a fucking second and figure out what to do, but we can’t talk in front of our captors without risking their retaliation.

  Niles walks ahead of us, leading the way up Hollowell’s drive. These guys don’t bother with anything as low-level as sneaking in the bathroom window. Instead, he jerks his head to one of his men. All of them are now wearing gloves, including D’Amato himself.

  “Alarm.”

  The guy disappears around the side of the house as two of the remaining men keep their weapons trained on us, guns held close to their bodies. Not that anyone is likely to see them. The houses in this neighborhood are mostly all set back from the road, with high fences or walls around them.

  As soon as the first man comes back, another one of Niles’s guys steps up to the door, pulling a small mechanism from his pocket. I’m not at the right angle to see what he does with it, but whatever it is, it works like a charm. A second later, the door swings open.

  “W
e’ll just have a chat with our friend, Mr. Hollowell,” Niles says darkly, his gaze flicking around the space as the others usher us inside.

  Hollowell isn’t home yet. The house is quiet, and although it’s bright enough thanks to the huge windows in the living room, no lights are on. It feels eerie, abandoned almost.

  We’re herded into the living room, where the elk and the fox gaze at us impassively, as neutral about our current situation as about anything else. Two guns stay trained on us, but I know all the men are armed. Niles D’Amato lifts his weapon and screws a silencer onto the barrel.

  “This is the kind of thing we can’t have, you see.” His voice has a lecturing tone, as if he’s trying to teach us something. “You think you know someone. You trust them. And then you find out that the very basis of your relationship—of your mutually beneficial relationship—was a lie. It’s…” He drags in a breath and lets it out on a sigh. “Disappointing.”

  “We don’t know anything about it.” My voice is raspy from fear and disuse, and the boys alongside me all tense as I speak.

  Niles sighs again. The men surrounding us all shift on their feet slightly, their posture becoming more tense and alert, and a desperate fear fills me. Is he planning to use us to send a message to Hollowell? Five dead bodies in his living room when he gets home would definitely put the fucking fear of God in him.

  “We just found the receipt. That’s all we know about whatever the two of you did together. We don’t know anything else,” I insist.

  I stare up at the tall, terrifying man, holding his gaze even though it makes my eyes water. It feels like staring at the sun, at a force too powerful to be taken in with human eyes.

  Niles cocks his head, his eyebrows twitching slightly. “Unfortunately, it’s not about how little you know. It’s about the fact that you know anything at all. Wild cards have to be eliminated—something Alexander Hollowell never seemed quite able to grasp.” He lifts a hand reassuring. “Don’t worry. We’ll teach him.”