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them
countless times.
    Most recently with Brianna in Florida at a
place called Evangeline’s. He thought he’d evaded the organization
this time, but sonofabitch if he hadn’t quite done it after
all.
    He’d wanted out, but apparently once Rivera
had a hold of you, you never got out.
    Cold sweat dripped down his spine. He’d blown
it. He should have moved on by now, but he’d holed up here for the
past two weeks instead, indulging in the decadence and sin the
Quarter had to offer. He’d gotten cocky, and he’d gotten stupid.
He’d been so sure he’d covered his tracks. He was going by a new
name, and he always paid in cash.
    He’d left Florida five months ago, moving
around constantly until he’d landed here. He’d been safe ,
goddamn it! Certain he’d pulled it off. How had they found him?
    He shook his head. It still swam from one too
many absinthe drips. He pressed a hand to the damp brick to steady
himself and swallowed down a flood of acid in his throat. The
sounds of revelry and jazz wafted down the alley from Bourbon
Street. The air was hot and sweet, saturated with humidity, liquor,
and the smells of spicy food.
    David sucked in a sharp breath against the
bile rising in his throat. Brianna had his files now, the bitch.
Panic flooded him. Briefly, he wondered if she would negotiate. If
she would consider a cut of the money he’d taken to give them back
again.
    He put his forehead against the brick and
breathed deep. Fuck no, she wouldn’t negotiate. He knew that. He’d
tried once before when he’d sensed she was as sick of working for
Rivera as he was.
    But Brianna was tough, and she wasn’t caving.
And now he was out here with his dick swinging in the wind. He had
no guarantees without those files. The money wouldn’t do him a damn
bit of good if he was dead.
    It had taken years to build the dossier. It
was his protection, his assurance that Rivera wouldn’t send anyone
to kill him. So long as he had the files, he was safe. Or so he’d
told himself—except that he hadn’t quite believed it enough to live
out in the open under his own name.
    He should have set up an online backup, but
he’d been too worried it would somehow fall into the wrong hands.
He didn’t want evidence of Rivera’s crimes—and his by
extension—sitting on a server somewhere just waiting for the Feds
to find it.
    It was different if he traded it for
immunity, but to have the Feds get all the info without him having
it as a bargaining chip?
    Not happening.
    Goddamn it!
    Right now, he almost wished he’d taken the
chance. If he had parked those files somewhere online, he
wouldn’t be standing here and cursing himself six ways to Sunday.
He’d only be a simple download away from replacing the evidence,
but instead the files were gone and he was as vulnerable as a
virgin in a whorehouse.
    He should have moved to a new location by
now. That was the second dumbass thing he’d done. He’d stayed here
when he should have gone south and kept going until he nearly fell
off the tip of South America. He was tired of doing Rivera’s dirty
work, tired of being the brains behind the financials and getting
nothing in return. Hell, Rivera hadn’t even recognized how valuable
an asset he could be.
    But David had gotten the last laugh when he’d
skimmed a cool ten million for himself out of the Florida
operations. He wasn’t greedy—Rivera was worth far more—but he
wanted his due.
    Yeah, he’d run Evie’s business into the
ground in the process. Maybe he shouldn’t have done it. Her paltry
earnings were only a drop in the bucket of his ten mil—but it had
gotten him what he wanted faster than if he’d waited another few
months to skim the money out of Rivera’s operations. Simply put,
he’d had no choice if he wanted his freedom. And he wanted that far
more than he’d wanted anything else.
    David shook his head again. It wasn’t too
late for him yet. Rivera probably thought he had him between a rock
and a hard place.