“Syndicate,” J-Mac repeated, his voice a low gravel. “Then you’re just middlemen, Corrigan. Which means you want more than the money. You want the location of the rest of it. The Diamond Duchess haul.”
J-Mac, however, was calm. He always was. He’d spent ten years in the military before going rogue, and Bonnie had learned that his stillness was more dangerous than any explosion. He was reading the room. Counting guards. Noting exits. Calculating the arc of the rusted I-beams overhead. bonnie blue jmac
J-Mac shot her a look— what are you doing? —but he trusted her. He always did. “Syndicate,” J-Mac repeated, his voice a low gravel
Bonnie shifted her weight, feeling for the tiny sliver of metal she’d palmed from a broken chair leg an hour ago. She’d been working the zip tie against it, strand by strand. She felt the last fiber give. Her hands were free, but she kept them behind her back, wrists together. You want the location of the rest of it
They sprinted into the storm, the shouts of Corrigan’s men fading behind them. The rain would wash away their footprints, their scent, their mistakes. By morning, the only thing left of Bonnie Blue and J-Mac would be a whispered story—and another pile of cash, safely in hand.
“Syndicate,” J-Mac repeated, his voice a low gravel. “Then you’re just middlemen, Corrigan. Which means you want more than the money. You want the location of the rest of it. The Diamond Duchess haul.”
J-Mac, however, was calm. He always was. He’d spent ten years in the military before going rogue, and Bonnie had learned that his stillness was more dangerous than any explosion. He was reading the room. Counting guards. Noting exits. Calculating the arc of the rusted I-beams overhead.
J-Mac shot her a look— what are you doing? —but he trusted her. He always did.
Bonnie shifted her weight, feeling for the tiny sliver of metal she’d palmed from a broken chair leg an hour ago. She’d been working the zip tie against it, strand by strand. She felt the last fiber give. Her hands were free, but she kept them behind her back, wrists together.
They sprinted into the storm, the shouts of Corrigan’s men fading behind them. The rain would wash away their footprints, their scent, their mistakes. By morning, the only thing left of Bonnie Blue and J-Mac would be a whispered story—and another pile of cash, safely in hand.
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