This retirement home used to have a name, but not anymore. The sign sits in disrepair, the letters long gone and the lights dead. It’s not small, however. Two stories and in the shape of a U—from the outside it looks rather massive. Adjacent to the retirement home is an emergency dispatch center. Probably a good choice for one, what with the old folks right next door.
There aren’t as many thugs as I thought there would be, but there’s enough to take note, and I can’t see inside. Pairs of bruisers circle around the perimeter, shootin’ the breeze. They must be moving bodies soon—why else have so many guys roaming the area? And that would explain why the crooked cops would opt out of the gala to work tonight’s shift. It would also explain why two cops in Joliet would go out of their way to drop off runaways. They want them gone fast.
“How are we going to do this?” Miles asks.
I shift behind our broken-fence hideaway. The neighborhood really is abandoned, and I suspect it was scheduled for demolition and urban improvement until Jeremy got his hands on a few parcels of property. Regardless, I lean against the busted property division and think over the problem.
“I don’t know much about this place,” I say. “It’s not a haunt I stalked before I left the Vice family. We could try finding a guy I know—but there’s a good chance he won’t be happy to see me. Or we could go straight for the holdings and search for Lacy, but if we’re trapped in a corner with forty guns on us, we’re not leaving.”
“How long do you think we have?”
“What? I have no idea.”
Miles motions to a cavalcade of semitrucks rolling down the far road, the roar of their engines dominating the area once they near. The three monstrous vehicles have grocery store advertisements across their trailers. Anyone with half a brain could see they aren’t here to pick up cabbage, but I guess no one is around to see anything at all.
“I guess we don’t have much choice in terms of action,” I murmur as I watch the semitrucks come to a stop in front of the emergency center and retirement home. They really are moving bodies tonight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE SEMITRUCKS maneuver with the grace of a drunken bull. One by one they angle and turn around, forcing the back ends of their trailers to face the buildings. Only one semitruck can fit in the parking lot in front of the emergency dispatch center. The other two park in front of the retirement home. Once situated, the drivers jump out and open the trailers.
Another parade of three vehicles pulls up to the party. They’re all black and sleek, one fancier than the rest and clearly a short limo. The other two are SUVs, and four men exit each one. The compact limo, on the other hand, has the one person I had hoped to avoid.
Jeremy Vice.
It’s not hard to tell. He’s shorter than the rest, wearing a much fancier charcoal suit, and his ears angle straight out. Miles spots him too, and his whole demeanor hardens in an instant. He pulls his gun and holds it at the ready. I place my hand on his arm and shake my head.
“We’re not fighting all of them,” I say.
“I know.”
“Then don’t act like we are.”
Miles keeps his handgun out, but he relaxes his stance and takes a deep breath.
I sit and observe Jeremy and his men enter the retirement home. The bruisers outside, along with the truck drivers, open the trailers and prep the insides, like they’re making room for the cargo, or perhaps making cubbies among legitimate goods.
“I’ll handle Jeremy when the time comes,” I mutter. “You focus on finding the girls.”
Miles grits his teeth. “No. I’ll handle Jeremy.”
I give him a one-sided smile. “I think I owe him for a couple months of my life.”
“He shot my brother,” Miles states, venom in his voice. “He threatened to kill me. He took you away. Now he has my sister. I don’t think his harm is exclusive to you.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. “He’ll have muscle with him at all times,” I say, hoping to cast doubt. “We shouldn’t go out of our way for a vendetta.” Maybe I would go out of my way, but I’ve run on the streets for twenty years and know how vicious some people can get. Miles shouldn’t face down Jeremy. I’m afraid he’ll learn a lesson the hard way if he does.
Miles shifts his weight from one foot to the other, muttering things to himself. I look over, and he shakes his head. “Pierce, what’re we going to do? Should we call the cops and hope we get some of the good ones? What if we call Rhett?”
They might not make it in time, even if we did call the cops. “Send Rhett a message. Tell him we’re trespassing on private property.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a crime, he’ll have to do something, and he’ll know what we mean without outright stating our activities.”
“All right. But that doesn’t solve this problem.” Miles types away on his phone, one-handed, and gets a small paragraph out before I gather my thoughts. Tsk. He sure knows his way around a cell phone.
“We’ll steal a truck,” I say. “We’ll get in the cab, take out the driver, pretend we’re following their group, and then break off. They won’t fight us once we reach public areas, and by then Rhett will have officers ready.”
I hope.
“Do you know how to drive a truck?” Miles asks.
I open my mouth and then close it. Fuck. Are they really more difficult to drive? I don’t want to find out in the middle of a getaway. I shake my head. “We’ll
