Free Ransom (Dead Man's Ink Series Book 3) by Callie Hart Page A

look for it.”
    Unlike Freemantle, there were a lot of kids in Afghanistan. Hundreds of them, teeming, running up and down narrow alleyways, vanishing and emerging from the shadows when you least expected it. It wasn’t a place for a kid to be. Ever . Jamie used to pull this shit with them over there, too. He’d pull out a bunch of money and bribe them into completing some time consuming, pointless task for him that would take them far away from the dangerous situation we’d shown up to deal with. Afghani kids wouldn’t have been complaining about ten bucks each. They’d have been climbing over themselves to take the deal and disappear. Half the time they wouldn’t even complete the task he’d set them. They’d just run off with the cash, as far as they could get for fear that they’d fail and he’d ask for the money back. Didn’t matter, though. Jamie would have accomplished what he set out to do, and the kids would be gone.
    The motley crew in front of us discuss his proposal in loud whispers before Tall Kid turns around and holds out his hand. “Deal. And if we figure out the answer to the equation, we get a hundred bucks?”
    Jamie nods.  
    “On top of the original ten each?”
    “Correct.”
“Cool. Let’s shake on it.”
    Jamie tries not to smile as Tall Kid accepts the deal on behalf of his compatriots. “And don’t cheat. If you’re out here in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll know you googled it. You need to look it up in a book.”
    A chorus of groans goes up from the small crowd. Tall Kid rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He takes the money from Jamie and the four of them begin making their way toward the library, pushing and shoving each other.  
    “Pity you can’t do that with Soph,” I say, elbowing him in the ribs.  
    “I’d be fucking broke if I had to bribe her every time I wanted her to do something.” Jamie climbs up and sits on the lone park bench, ass on the back, feet on the seat. “I’d rather have money in my back pocket and a spirited girlfriend any day of the week.” He winks, and I can only imagine what kind of shit those two get up to in the bedroom. Jamie’s not one to kiss and tell, but I heard them well enough when I was waiting for Soph to come cook breakfast. It sounded like he was murdering her or something, and she was strangely fucking happy about it.  
    “Where’s Lowell set up shop?” I ask, doing my best to shove Jamie and Sophia’s weird sex life out of my head. Jay points over my shoulder, up toward the second story of the tiny women’s clothing store on the other side of the street. There are three sets of windows up there, each shut tight, which is weird for such a swelteringly hot day. Net curtains block the view inside, but I can imagine Lowell has already noticed us and has camera lenses pointed our way.  
    “Why d’you wanna do this in plain sight?”
    “Because if I know Lowell’s here, Hector knows Lowell’s here, too. And he’s not gonna pull any weird shit if he knows he’s got half a federal agency jammed up his ass. Or at least I’m assuming he won’t.”
    “Probably.” I turn my back on the windows again. “Think she can monitor the conversation?”
    Jamie looks at me. Shrugs. Looks away down the street. He turns a cocktail stick over and over between his teeth. Neither one of us have worn our MC cuts into town; we’re both in jeans and t-shirts, baseball caps turned backward on our head, sneakers on our feet. We’re just two guys in our late twenties. Or we would be if we weren’t covered in so many tattoos. Military tattoos. Club tattoos. Things that your average civilian might not recognize, but a cop definitely would.  
    We wait for a while. We don’t speak. We’ve been friends for so long now that we don’t need to open our mouths to communicate. I know what he’s thinking from the way his forehead creases, or the way his eyes seem to flash occasionally, transmitting information and his mood in a way that few people