Chapter 155
Wesley
Marcello stood, opened his arms wide. "Carlos! Good to see you, hermano. And yeah, the kid's new. But don't let the face fool you." He jerked his thumb in Scar's direction. "Ask my boy there how 'soft' he is."
Carlos's gaze flicked to Scar-face, taking in the damage. His eyebrows rose. "No shit? The college boy did that?"
"With his bare hands and zero training." Marcello's voice carried pride now. "Kid's got a death wish and the balls to back it up. Which is perfect, actually—" his grin turned predatory, "—because you don't have to waste one of your guys tonight. And I don't have to waste one of mine. We got our lookout right here."
Lookout?
I stood slowly, trying to piece together what that meant. Based on the suddenly wary looks from Carlos's men—and the barely contained glee on Scar-face's face—it wasn't good.
Carlos studied me, head tilted like he was evaluating livestock. Then he started laughing. "You serious? This kid doesn't even know what a lookout does!" He turned to his men. "Hey, check it out—Marcello's gonna sacrifice the college boy!"
Their laughter was harsh, mocking. A few made crude gestures.
Something hot and familiar unfurled in my chest. The same recklessness that had made me charge at Scar-face. The same fuck-it mentality that had made me hang up on Vanessa.
I stepped forward, past Marcello, until I was face-to-face with Carlos. Close enough to smell cigarettes and cheap cologne. "I don't give a fuck what it is," I said clearly. "Lookout, guard duty, whatever. I'll do it better than any of your strung-out dealers could manage."
The warehouse went quiet.
Carlos's smile vanished. His hand moved toward his waistband—where I could now see the outline of a gun. "Careful, pendejo. You don't talk to me like—"
But his boss—the older man with the mustache—held up a hand. His face was unreadable for a long moment. Then he started laughing again, but this time it sounded almost... impressed?
"Okay, okay. Kid's got fire, I'll give him that." He reached behind his back, pulled out a pistol—black, heavy, military-looking—and tossed it to me.
I caught it on instinct. The weight was foreign in my hand. Dangerous.
Real.
"You know what a lookout does, college boy?" The Mexican boss's smile was all teeth. "You're first to spot trouble. First to sound the alarm. And—" he paused for effect, "—last to leave. You gotta cover our retreat if shit goes sideways."
My throat went dry. "Cover your retreat?"
"With that." He gestured at the gun in my hand. "If the cops show up, you fire off a couple rounds. Loud as you can. Gives us warning, buys us time to pack up and get the fuck out."
"But—" I looked down at the weapon. "If I shoot, the cops will know exactly where I am."
"Sí." His grin widened. "That's the point. You draw their attention while we load up and roll out the back. It's a suicide run, hermano. Nine times out of ten, the lookout ends up dead or arrested." He laughed like this was the funniest joke he'd heard all week. "Good luck, kid. You're gonna need it."
Marcello clapped a hand on my shoulder—hard enough to make me wince. "Don't look so scared, Wesley. It's simple. You stand at the front door. You keep watch. If you see cops, you fire the gun, then you run like hell to catch our vehicles at the back exit." His voice dropped, losing all warmth. "Think you can handle that?"
I swallowed hard. This was insane. This was—
I thought about Lance. About Serena. About Vanessa and her friends and everyone who'd ever looked at me like I was nothing.
"Yeah," I heard myself say. "I can handle it."
"Good." Marcello's smile returned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Because here's the thing, kid. This is not a test. You fuck it up—you signal too late, you run too early, you hesitate—and you're not just failing us. You're putting the whole operation at risk."
"And if I put the operation at risk?" I already knew the answer, but I needed to hear it.
Marcello leaned in close. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, but every word landed like a physical blow. "Then we can't trust you. And if we can't trust you..." He let the sentence hang.
Carlos laughed from behind us. "He means we kill you, college boy. Put a bullet in that pretty head and dump you in the river. Nothing personal—just business."