Chapter 30: "The Double-Cross" Julian POV
I'm still shaking from those gunshots on Marcus's call with Ray, my head spinning, syndicate, bigger than Salazar, Ray maybe dead. Marcus is pacing the flat, muttering, "We're screwed," and I can't sit still, can't let it end like this. My phone's been quiet since that "Run" text, but I'm checking it anyway, desperate for something, anything, to fight back. Then it buzzes, sharp, and I grab it fast, an email, no name, just "Alley off Fremont, 1 a.m. Come alone, bring Marcus. I've got proof." My heart's thudding, and I show it to him, voice shaky. "Another tip, what d'you think?"
He squints, face pale, and nods, slow. "Ray's gone, someone's still talking. Could be big." My gut twists, it's risky, bloody mad after last night, but we've got nothing else. Tony's blog, the ledger, Victor's photo, it's all pointing somewhere, and this "proof" might be it. "We go," I say, firm, and he grabs his jacket, shaky but in. It's past midnight now, and we're out, sneaking through Vegas, streets dark, air cold, my boots splashing leftover puddles from the storm.
The alley's off Fremont Street, narrow, lined with bins and flickering lights, dead quiet, creepy as hell. My chest's tight, and I'm gripping the ledger in my jacket, proof of our own, if we need it. Marcus is close, breath puffing out, and we stop near a rusted fire escape, waiting. "Where's this tipster?" he mutters, and I shrug, eyes darting, every shadow's a threat after Ray. My phone says 1:02 a.m., and I'm jumpy, too exposed, too alone, when footsteps echo, slow, coming our way.
A figure steps out, hood up, face hidden, and my heart skips. "You got the proof?" I call, voice rough, and they nod, holding up a bag, small, black, dangling from their hand. "Closer," they say, low, muffled, and I step forward, Marcus behind me. My hands are sweaty, and I'm thinking, Tony? Claire?, but something's off, the air too still. They toss the bag at my feet, and I bend to grab it, just as headlights flare, bright and sudden, from the alley's end. A car, big, dark, revs loud, tires screeching, and my stomach drops.
"Jules!" Marcus yells, grabbing my arm, and I'm up, stumbling back as the car charges, straight at us. My heart's slamming, and I dive, pulling him with me, crashing into bins, metal clanging, rubbish spilling. The car swerves, missing us by inches, and I hear doors slam, two blokes, big, masks on, piling out fast. My head's spinning, it's an ambush, a bloody trap, and I'm scrambling, dragging Marcus behind a dumpster. "Who sent us?" I hiss, panicked, and he's shaking, "Someone we trusted, someone close."
Gunshots crack, loud, sharp, bullets pinging off metal, and I duck, heart in my throat. The bag's gone, lost in the mess, and I'm thinking, Claire? She knew we were digging. Tony? His name's everywhere. My hands claw the ground, wet and cold, and I peek out, blokes closing in, guns up, moving fast. "Go!" I shout, shoving Marcus, and we bolt, legs burning, boots slipping, down the alley, shots chasing us. My chest's heaving, and I'm terrified, betrayed, proper stitched up by someone we let in.
We cut round a corner, bins crashing behind us, and I'm running blind, lungs screaming, Marcus gasping next to me. The car's revving again, tires squealing, and I risk a look, headlights swinging, hunting us. My mind's racing, who? Victor? He's got the muscle, but this feels sharper, planned. The email, "bring Marcus," they knew we'd bite, knew we'd come. My hands ball up, and I'm thinking, Claire walked out, Mick warned me, Tony's stirring it, someone sold us out, led us right into this.
We duck into another alley, narrow, dark, and I pull Marcus down behind a wall, breath ragged. The car roars past, close, and I hear shouts, blokes searching, footsteps crunching. My back's pressed to the brick, and I'm shaking, proper scared, we're cornered, trapped by someone we trusted. "Who knew?" I whisper, desperate, and Marcus's eyes are wide, wild. "Claire, maybe she flipped. Or Tony, playing us." My stomach twists, both fit, both could've, and I hate it, hate not knowing.
The footsteps fade, car engine growling softer, and I'm panting, sweat dripping. We're alive, barely, and I'm clutching Marcus's arm, both of us wrecked. My head's pounding, three weeks ago, he kissed me, and now we're dodging bullets, double-crossed in some alley. The ledger's still in my jacket, crumpled, and I'm thinking, it's all we've got left, proof someone wants gone. We crawl out, slow, checking shadows, and I'm shook, betrayal burning, no clue who's behind it.
Marcus stands, shaky, wiping blood from a scrape on his hand, and turns to me, voice trembling. "We can't run anymore, Jules," he says, low, raw. "We end this." My heart's still racing, and I'm staring at him, eyes hard, set, and I nod, slow, terrified but done. The car's gone, the alley's quiet, but that trap's loud in my head, someone close, someone we trusted, and now it's us against them, no running left.