There’s no question, I need to get closer.
I need to know who to kill for threatening my mother.
The three newcomers shake hands with the foreman.
I exit the Volvo and shut the door, quietly. Keeping my head down, I circle the outskirts of the construction site.
The construction site is a bustling hive of activity; the construction crew are all at the center of the job site, their heads down and their attention focused on the heavy machinery they’re operating. Machines whirr and scream and thunder and I sneak through the mass of concrete and steel without being seen.
It isn’t in my nature to hide, but it is in my nature to kick ass, and I sneak to the backside of the foreman’s trailer, out of view of the construction yard. I get up close to a window and, through the sideways slats of his window shades, note the four unlucky souls that are about to be on the receiving end of the rounds in my Glock.
There’s the foreman. Army washout, thick-necked waste of life, coward who gets off on threatening old women. He’s sitting at his desk, with blueprints out in front of him and the other three standing right over his shoulder. Two of them, the rich ones that I recognize as Anna Ebri and her too-slick father, Carl Ebri, are giving the foreman the third degree.
Then there’s the other.
Government suit. Unassuming posture. Slumped shoulders. Looking like he’d rather be anywhere else than in this trailer with the other three.
But he’s here all the same.
And I’d know his face anywhere.
I still remember when he stood on the stage at Torreon High School’s graduation, looking so proud. While his daughter received the recognition as a valedictorian.
Lorenzo Santos.
Tiffany’s father.
The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I step back from the window. Her dad is in on this? Her fucking dad? The father of the moralizing Saint Tiffany is in on some scam to kick my mother out of her home?
My hand grips tight to my gun. In my head, I see myself breaking into the trailer and bringing my mother’s problems to an end with brutal finality — four pulls of the trigger, four dead bodies, in and out in less than thirty seconds. It’s nothing I haven’t done before, nothing I wouldn’t do again to protect my loved ones.
But there’s something stopping me. Her. I don’t give a shit about Lorenzo Santos, but I sure as hell care about his daughter. And the promise I made to her to keep on my best behavior until this mess is over. Somehow, I don’t think she’d let me slide for murdering her father.
Sighing, I shove my gun down the back of my pants and turn away from the trailer. At least now I have a better handle on how this whole situation and all the players involved.
The only problem is, one of those players is the father of the only woman who’s ever made me give a damn about doing things the legal way.
Son of a bitch is protected because he raised a daughter with a great ass, legs to die for, and a smile that makes me want to be a better man.
I sneak back to the Volvo. I need to get back to Tiffany. We need to come up with a plan.
I’m halfway there when a rough voice stops me short.
“Hey you. Who the hell are you? You shouldn’t be here. Stop!”
I turn. They’ve found me. And there’s a lot of them. Thick arms, thick necks, with rebar, crowbars, and hammers held in big gloved hands.
I promised Tiffany I’d do things her way and stay out of trouble, but it looks like trouble’s found me.
There’s only one way I’m leaving here.
I reach for my gun.
Chapter Fifteen
Tiffany
With eyes that are icy cold, with a smile that burns with its frigidity, David looks at me like he’s won. And I wilt beneath that look.
“What are you talking about?” Eleanor says. Her voice is a mix of confusion and frustration. A mother who once had hoped the best for her son, but has since grown used to consistent disappointment. “What are you saying about my son?”
David stands. Looks down at the old woman who is hanging on his every word. In his mind, she’s someone I care about, and if he can hurt me by hurting her and ruining even further her relationship with her son, he’ll do it.
“As an attorney, it’s my duty to advise you — a potential client — of any serious legal issues I see. Well, your son being a wanted felon is a colossal legal issue.”
“David, you don’t need to do this,” I say. “I know you’re upset at me, but Eleanor’s problem has nothing to do with us. Let’s just get back on topic and behave like adults, OK?”
Maybe somewhere beneath that icy exterior is a professional. Someone willing to listen to reason and put aside our petty differences to do the right thing and help an old woman on the verge of losing everything.
If we just talk this out like rational adults, I’m certain we can get around our differences.
“Like rational adults, huh? Were you behaving rationally when you ran off on me, Tiffany? When you shut me out and ignored me and threw away everything we had, all of your potential, to leave Stanford and go to some cut-rate school and work at some pathetic small-town bank?”
I flinch. How can he be so heartless? How can he be so intent on hurting me and, even worse, hurting Eleanor? She’s done nothing to deserve this. There has to be some way to reason with him.
“That’s not how it happened, David, and
