“Does he know this is where you were storing the guns?”
“No. I told him they were in a warehouse by the docks in Long Beach. Didn’t want to take any chances with him. He has no reason to show up here tonight as far as I know.”
An SUV pulls in behind the Mercedes and stops. The driver’s door of the Mercedes opens, and Celeste Flores steps out.
“What the fuck?”
J.J. glances at me. “You know her?”
“It’s Celeste.”
His eyes go wide. “As in Celeste Flores? Motherfucking Arturo Flores’ daughter? Jesus Christ! I’d be better off facing the goddamn ATF!”
His objections barely register over the certainty that something is very wrong. She’s pale as death, and when she turns and steps into the open garage, there’s a streak of red across one cheek.
“Maddox?” she calls in a brittle voice. “Maddox, we need your help!”
“Stay here,” I whisper to J.J., and I’m out from behind my truck like a shot. In a handful of strides, I have her in my arms. “What’s wrong?” I ask, cupping her face in both hands and rubbing the red off her cheek. It’s blood—fucking blood.
She lifts a shaking hand and grips my wrist. Her hand is covered in blood too. “Leo,” she whispers, her eyes wide and terrified. Her grip tightens, and she pulls me to the car. The second I register who is in the passenger seat, I’m already running before I realize it. I yank the door open and tear off Leo’s seat belt.
He’s unconscious, his chest soaked with blood. I lean down and peel the sodden pile of paper towels or whatever they are away from the wound in his shoulder. The bleeding has slowed and he still has a pulse, which is a small blessing.
“Julian!” I bellow, calling my brother the way our mom might if she were trying to get his attention.
My brother appears at my side along with two other men—the Quiñones twins, grim-faced and just as bloody as Celeste. Between the four of us, we get Leo into my lift and up to my apartment. Once we lay him on the bed, J.J. disappears with the twins, and I direct Celeste to head down to the shop for my med kit. While she’s gone, I strip Leo’s shirt and drench the wound in hydrogen peroxide, heedless of the mess I’m making of the bed.
“Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell happened to you?” I mutter. His eyelids flutter, and he murmurs something unintelligible.
Now that I can see it clearly, the wound itself isn’t that alarming. Sure, it’s a gunshot, but it’s nowhere near any major organs. The wound pierces his right shoulder just beneath the clavicle. There’s a dime-sized hole through one of his tattoos, but the rear of his shoulder is devoid of an exit wound.
“Is he going to be okay?” Celeste asks, depositing my med kit on the bed. J.J. and the twins reappear, hovering just beyond the folding screens that separate the bed from the rest of my studio apartment. J.J.’s expression is grim as fuck.
“It’s not as bad as it looks. He’ll be fine as soon as I remove the bullet. Just give me a hand with this.”
She obeys my commands without question, retrieving the supplies I need from the med kit and handing them to me one at a time. Thankfully, the bullet is easy to extract, and I drop it into an empty coffee cup sitting on my nightstand, then irrigate and stitch up the wound.
Once Leo is patched up and dosed with morphine and antibiotics, Celeste helps change out the sheets and blankets, and we tuck him into my bed. I wash up in the bathroom, mentally preparing myself to hear what happened. The fact that Gustavo was involved in J.J.’s gun deal points to all this shit being connected, and the back of my neck prickles with dread.
It’s Celeste and Leo, so there’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to keep from getting involved. Not to mention my own brother thought it would be a good idea to sell guns to the fucking Amador cartel.
Taking a deep breath, I exit the bathroom to the sight of Celeste seated on the edge of my bed, her bloody hands wrapped tight around Leo’s hand like she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she lets go. She’s covered in blood, the blond ends of her hair stained red and matted. The collar of her shirt hangs wide, the fabric ripped and ragged, and the jacket she threw to the floor earlier has dark stains around the cuffs. I rest a hand on her shoulder and squeeze.
“He’s going to be fine. Why don’t you get cleaned up? Use my shower. Help yourself to clean clothes from my dresser.” I gesture to the sturdy wooden chest of drawers in the corner.
I squeeze again, and she takes a long, shaky breath, nods, and stands. She steps mechanically into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her.
J.J., Benny, and Baz are seated around my crappy fifties-era dining table, staring at their beers when I walk in. J.J. glances up when I pause at the end of the table, then tilts his chin toward the twins. “They’ve got something they need to show you.”
Benny stands abruptly and chugs his beer. His face is streaked with tears that cut through the dried blood he didn’t wash off. The haunted look means Leo wasn’t the only casualty tonight.
When we get down to the garage again, J.J. has moved my truck out, and the two cars Celeste and the twins arrived in are parked inside with the garage door securely closed. The Mercedes’ leather interior is a mess, but I’m not prepared for what’s in the back seat of the SUV.
“Jesus fucking Christ! Why didn’t you tell me someone else was shot?” I tear open the door and lean in, frantically searching for a pulse in the unconscious man’s neck. My body sags in defeat when there’s none
