Page 79 of Inez

Scarlett narrows her eyes at him, her glare cold. "Fonz, you need to learn when to not be funny, if you're going to be part of this group."

Fonz holds up his hands. "May as well ask water to stop being wet, but if ya'll can't take a joke, I’ll try an' be a bit more P-C."

"It is not a matter of political correctness, Mister The Fonz," Anjalee says in her soft, quiet voice. "It is a matter of not using insulting and offensive language in reference to people you are supposed to be caring about. We are knowing you do not meanto say that we are bitches, but perhaps it is better to not risk offense, I think. There is a saying in English which I have heard: discretion is the better part of valor. And perhaps in this case, you could substitute comedy for valor. Yes?"

Fonz eyes her. "Even takin' me to task, you're nice about it." he sighs. "I hear ya. Didn't mean nothin' by it, but I take your point."

Anjalee turns back to Kane, kisses him, and then pushes him toward the door. "Go and rescue Sophia. Whatever it takes. Yes?"

Kane palms her ass and yanks her to him. "God, I love you, y'know that?"

She rests her head on his chest. "Yes, I do know. Quite well. And I love you." She wriggles from his grasp and gives him another hard shove toward the door. "Go! Do the violence upon the men who have caused such strife in our lives. It is all they respect, men like those. I do not love you for an oath, I love you for who you are. And I know you would not lightly go against it."

Kane lets her shove propel him into a trot, and he doesn't look back. I watch the rest of the men say their goodbyes, and then I turn to Toro, Taj, and Fonz. "Protect them or die trying."

Taj frowns at me. "Are you quite certain you should go, considering your injured state?"

"Inez is my woman." I shrug. "You could not keep me here even if I was on death's door."

Toro salutes me in perfect parade ground form. "We have the watch,mi hermano."

I nod at him, and then turn on my heel and follow the others, gritting my teeth against the biting agony that dogs my every step.

The mini-flotilla of yachts—similar,if not identical—has spread out across several nautical miles, bobbing steadily southward. This works in our favor, as the distance between the boats means we can hit them one by one without sacrificing the element of surprise.

Silas is the somewhat surprising source of our ability to even reach the flotilla—he leveraged a contact in the LA drug scene, a business associate he had extensive dealings with during his time as a major mover of product for the Syndicate. The contact, known only as Crash, provided a helicopter flight out into the Pacific toward the last known location of the small fleet of yachts.

Crash's higher-ups, you see, don't like Rafael's intrusion into the delicate balance of power between the various criminal factions that have divvied up LA; nor do they appreciate Pugli's political interference, and most of all, they despise the extra attention from law enforcement recent events have caused. It's a productive trade-off for them: give us what we need to hit Rafael and rescue Inez, and we do the bloody work of removing their problem without having to risk their own personnel.

Which is how I find myself in the belly of a helo, kitted out in body armor, night vision, with mags for my rifle and sidearm strapped to the vest, and plenty of flashbangs and frag grenades, stomach in my throat as the aircraft skims a handful of feet above the black, rippling surface of the sea. My injuries throb, and my molars ache from constantly gritting them against the incessant ache.

Beside me, Solomon is thumbing shells into a magazine—more for something to do with his hands than because we needmore magazines. The helicopter banks sharply, showing the darkly glittering metallic sea at a nauseating angle, the tips of the rotors seeming to nearly brush the waves themselves. The angle of the bank tips me into Solomon, pressing my injured hip against the corner of his holstered sidearm, sending a flare of pain through me so sharp and hot that a breathless groan escapes my clenched teeth.

Sol eyes me. "Dude, you good?"

"Sim," I grit out, "fine."

Solomon barks a laugh and extends his right leg so he can dig into his hip pocket. He produces a handful of single-serving NSAID packets, the kind you can find for sale in a hotel gift shop. "Picked these up at the Bellagio. It ain't as good as lollipop, but better than nothing.”

I take several of the packets. "Lollipop? What good would candy be for me?"

Sol chuckles. "It's what we call those fentanyl lozenge things. Ever use one?"

I nod. "Oh, yes. I would do terrible things for one, right now." I rip open packets until I have a handful of blue gel capsules, which I throw back all at once and wash down with a swallow of water. “Thank you, my friend."

Sol nods. "For sure." He glances at me for a moment, and then away. "You know, none of us would think less of you if you—"

"I would," I cut in. "If it was your Scarlett out there and you were in my place, would you sit out the op?"

Sol shakes his head. "Fuck no. Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

I shove the rest of the packets into my pocket for later—I'll need them, I'm sure. "Then you understand. But I appreciate the sentiment. I will be fine. We just have to find Sophia before thatmonster gets his…." I trail off, my voice shaking with rage. "Wehaveto find her, Sol. And quickly.”

Sol gently squeezes my knee. "We will." The helo flares to hover over the bobbing shadow of a yacht. Flashlight beams spear the night sky. "Here we go."

I tug my gloves on, tighten the wrist straps, and get to my feet, growling at the protesting pulse of pain. Refusing to limp, I follow Sol to the open doorway, waiting for my turn to fast-rope down. Kane, secured to the interior of the helo, rips off burst after burst at the flashlights and starbursts of gunfire, giving the rest of us time to rope down to the deck.

When it's my turn, I zip down the line, halt myself at the last second, and land heavily on my good leg, dropping to a knee and rolling once to absorb the impact of the landing.