The Rules of Survival (Mercer #1)

RoS Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Five

Sal was not impressed when we joined him in the living room.

Arms crossed over his chest and frowning sternly, he looked like he was facing down his teenage daughter, not his fearless leader and a girl whose hourglass was rapidly running out of sand.

"That was an awfully long chat," he said, eyeing us meaningfully.

"We had a lot to discuss," Justice replied, words clipped.

"Yeah, well, in future you might want to make sure you put your shirt back on correctly after these chats."

"What?"

Sal pointed at Justice's neckline. "Hombre, your shirt's on inside out and backwards."

"You have got to be kidding me," Justice muttered, ripping the thing off and pulling it the right way in. My cheeks burned furiously at the sight of his exposed skin, specifically at the little red indentations over his ribs that looked suspiciously like imprints of fingernails.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus, I hadn't...

The goggle eyed look on Sal's face said, hell yes I had. Justice was ignorant of the state of his body as he replaced his shirt. He sat down on the other end of the sofa and motioned me to join him. In my conscious state to keep as much distance as possible between us, I practically sat in Sal's lap.

"Now that we're all present and accounted for, let's get this show on the road," Sal said, propping his laptop open against my thighs to give us all a good vantage point.

We watched the footage no less than three times.

For me, that was how long it took to process what was happening. For Justice and Sal, the extra two times were to take in every single detail with grim focus; every little nuance, whether it was relevant or not.

I sat in stunned silence. Comprehension was a foreign concept, and the mechanics of breathing was fast heading that way. Unsatisfied with the first three viewings, Sal leaned over to hit play once more, and so I watched, unblinking, one more time. Onscreen the footage was black and white, and thankfully without sound.

The camera was situated in the top corner of what appeared to be a wine cellar, providing a spectacular view of the only entrance to the room and the rows upon rows of neatly stacked wine bottles. Two bare bulbs made for harsh lighting that cast dark shadows over the room's contents. A couple of empty crates sat next to the heavy wood door and there were no windows, suggesting the entire room was beneath ground level.

Sal fast forwarded until we hit a moment of significance. It was 2:21AM when the heavy wood door opened and three men walked into the room, one I recognized as being the Chicago Police Superintendent Mark Spurges. A lean, wiry man in his late forties, he was wearing a pair of dark slacks and a matching fleece, and as soon as he entered the room his eyes darted up and made direct contact with the camera, like he was reassuring himself of this false sense of security.

The man that came in right behind the superintendent was Callahan Cordero, his identity evident in the way he carried himself with a combination of arrogance and pride, his stride that of a man who was extremely self-confident in his role of instigator. Bringing up the rear was a guy Sal pointed out as being Reed.

Despite Justice's censuring glare over the top of my head, Sal revealed that Callahan didn't go anywhere without at least one of his so-called bodyguards firmly attached to his hip.