Page 70 of Primal
Blackmail is my last resort and only hope. I don’t even know if Mr. Silk will turn on the burner phone now that the job is done, but according to Nexxor, he’s turned it on and off a few times a day. Not long enough to get a location or much to go on, but long enough to see any bait I send.
I changed my mind, I type into James’s text thread, pretending to be him.I want more money. Now.
The answer doesn’t come for a few hours. I spend the time in meetings with stakeholders and higher-ups about the newest hotel’s progress. Luckily, things are going according to plan, but any further obstacles, and I might be up shit creek. All the hoopsI have to jump through to get the casino don’t mean shit to bald old men who need money to pay for their sugarbabies.
When I make it back to my office, I check James’s phone. Two new messages, one from his baby mama asking where the hell his child support payment is, and another from Mr. Silk just a few minutes ago.
You aren’t getting shit. Don’t message me again.
Hook, line, and sinker.
If you don’t meet me, I’ll go straight to the cops.
It’s a weak threat, and when I get an answer ten minutes later, Mr. Silk knows it, too.
The cops lmao. Sure, go for it. You think they’ll believe you? They have more shit to deal with than some convict loser.
Mr. Silk’s snappy answer has more bark than bite, but it does tell me one thing: he’s a cop, or at least has something to do with one.
No one else would be so certain the cops won’t investigate the matter. And my guess is, if it really is a cop, he’s the one holding up Mason’s murder case in the first place.
Clever bastard.
You wanna bet? I like my odds. Big Brother is always watching.
My response is a gamble. I don’t know how Mr. Silk and James met, and I don’t know if they’ve ever seen each other in person. I’m banking on the latter. Either that or Nexxor somehow pulling off a miracle since Mr. Silk has kept his phone on for a bit. The three bubbles of a new message appear and disappear a few times before he finally answers.
7PM at the dock. Seattle side.
Which dock?
Clearly, it’s a place they’ve met before, and I text Jasper to find out from James what dock he’s been to.
I consider heading there myself once we find out, but I don’t think I can make it. I glance at the clock next to my monitor. Fiora agreed to meet Marco tonight at 6PM after he gets off work, and like hell I’m going to let her go alone. I meant it when I said no one fucks with what’s mine, and Fiora Godwin is mine is every single way. I said I’d let her handle it, but if Marco dares to touch one hair on her head, he won’t have any hands left to do it again.
After a quick call, a few of my men head out to all the Seattle docks to keep an eye on them since I have no real idea which one this man is talking about. The rest of my afternoon is spent on the phone with vendors, designers, and partners for this damn hotel. It will be a ton of revenue, but it’s a fucking headache to sort out. If the next year and a half are like this, I’m going to need a lot of whisky.
My phone rings just after five, and I curse when I see the name. The foreman down at the parking garage. With everything going on, I haven’t been able to make a visit to check on progress. I trusted him to get that old building demolished, but if he’s calling me, it’s not good news.
“Braken Frost.”
“Mr. Frost, hi, this is Chuck from Lavore Construction. Sorry to bug you, but we have a little problem down here at the site.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose to keep calm. “What problem exactly?”
“Well, we got a call and uh, apparently there’s a gas leak in the lot over? And they gotta turn off the grid for the weekend ’cause they can’t get out till Monday.”
After all the delays and red tape, I should have expected some bullshit like this. A gas leak? There isn’t even any electricity or gas hooked up to that building anymore. But Chuck has been my go-to construction man for years now, building the last three ofmy hotels. He’s as no-bullshit and strait-laced as they come. He won’t lie to me.
“I haven’t gotten a call,” I deadpan.
“They said they’d call in a bit.”
Not even two seconds later, my secretary knocks on the door to tell me I have an important call from the gas company. Just great. Another headache to deal with. I tell her I’ll call them back and glance at the clock. I need to leave if I’m going to watch over Fiora. They’re meeting at a fucking Denny’s, of all places, one that’s right down the street from the precinct. But that also means it’s right downtown, and I’m going to be stuck in traffic if I don’t go now.
I pinch the bridge of my nose again before sighing. What’s another fucking day or two?
“I’ll deal with the gas company. Go home for the day. But make sure you’re there right at seven Monday morning. I will be there myself to check. I won’t accept any further delays.”