King Slayer: A Fog City Novel

by Layla Reyne

  “Except when those authorities are compromised.” Chris had a guess as to what—or rather who—was Kane’s Achilles’ heel, but he didn’t need to strike at that weak spot. Yet. “What would you have done if I’d told you who I really was? I didn’t put you in that position because you’re more valuable to me, and to them, if we’re working together.”

  “Cruz vouched for you,” Kane said.

  “Because she knows the real reason I’m here.”

  “The explosives.”

  “Isabella.”

  Sighing, Kane released the death grip on his biceps and ambled over to the window. He skirted a hand over his short hair, then rested his forearm against the window frame, back to Chris. “Zander Rowe killed Isabelle Costa.” Not an attestation, more like a weary chorus. Same as the man himself.

  “If you’re half the cop I think you are, you know that’s just as much a cover as my partner’s name was.”

  Kane rotated and rested back against the window. “So Tran was right? You went rogue? Isabelle too?”

  “Not rogue. Neither of us.” Chris filched two candies out of the bowl on Kane’s desk and tossed one to the chief. “Izzy went off the map a few days before her death. I still don’t know why, but I think it has to do with those explosives and why she was killed. Which is my number one priority here.”

  “But not the ATF’s.”

  “My priorities aren’t ranked the same as the agency’s.”

  “Oh, is that it?”

  “I also knew there was a threat to Hawes.”

  Kane pitched the foil wrapper in the trash can and popped the candy into his mouth. “You used that to get close to him.”

  “Yes, until I realized what Hawes was trying to do.” He clicked the hard candy against his teeth, recalling that morning in Hawes’s bathroom. A double-edged sword—doubt and respect—had pierced his chest at learning Hawes was maneuvering the Madigans out of the explosives business. And then that blade had melted under the heat of something more when Hawes had turned down Chris’s offered gun. He’d poured his conflicting emotions into the kisses he’d given Hawes that morning. All of it real in that moment. Same as Hawes’s intentions for his family’s empire. “They’re not the same Madigans anymore, are they?”

  Kane didn’t reply. Smart, better not to let on how much he did or didn’t know.

  “They’re moving away from high-risk, disreputable ventures,” Chris continued. “And someone doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like Hawes.”

  “Amelia.”

  “Was working for someone else. The threat is still out there.” He cast out a baited line, fishing. “To all of them.”

  Kane pushed off the window and returned to his desk. “So what do we do?”

  And fish caught.

  Chris pointed at himself. “I keep hunting Izzy’s killer.” Then gestured between them. “We work the explosives angle, which is connected to the attempted coup. The faction Amelia was working with and that wants to overthrow Hawes, stole those explosives. Finding the person behind the theft and the coup is in all our interests.” He shifted forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “I need a meet before Wheeler arrives.”

  Kane spread his hands, palms up. “What makes you think they’ll talk to me now?”

  The defeat in Kane’s voice sent a pang of regret rippling through Chris. He didn’t like putting the chief in this position either. “I told Hawes you had nothing to do with it. That you didn’t know who I was.”

  “But they know we’ll be coordinating now.”

  “Then convince them we’re still on their side.” They’d believe Kane before they’d ever believed him.

  “How do I know you are?”

  “I could have turned them in at any point this week. I didn’t.”

  “And why is that?”

  “It’s not in my interest to do so.” Not when Hawes and his siblings could lead him to Isabella’s killer. And not when his interest in Hawes had drifted beyond mark—beyond target—to something else, whether Chris had wanted it to or not.

  “The bust you could make…”

  “I don’t care,” Chris said. “I’m out after this case.”

  Kane’s brows climbed to his hairline.

  “I want Izzy’s killer brought to justice, then I want to get on with living my life, or whatever’s left of it.”

  “You want to come home.”

  “I do.” He ignored the image that flashed behind his eyes—of Hawes in his bathroom—and stood, hand outstretched toward Kane. “Will you help me?”

  The chief considered too long a moment, long enough to make Chris wonder whether he’d miscalculated in his approach, before he finally stood and shook Chris’s hand. “This is my home too. I’m sworn to protect it.” And them, he didn’t have to say. “That’s what I’ll do.”

  Chapter Three

  Phone in hand, Chris glared at the dark screen. Over twenty-four hours and no word about a meet. He’d spent the day following leads on Amelia’s flash drive. He’d bluffed about knowing its location. No luck finding it, at least in the places he could search. So he’d come here instead, to his mom’s house, seeking distraction.

  Which arrived right on cue. “Christopher?” His mother’s voice echoed up from the downstairs garage. “Are you here?”

  Chris dropped his phone back into his apron pocket and shouted over the footsteps trudging up the steps. “That’s my bike down there, isn’t it?” He’d left the door at the top of the stairs open, anticipating their arrival home from evening mass.

  “Dad’s bike,” his sister said, appearing first through the door. “And it’s missing an exhaust bolt.”

  Even with a living room and kitchen island between them, Celia’s weary bitterness slammed into Chris. Three family dinners since he’d been back in town, and she’d been this way at each of them. He’d chalked it up to a mood the first time, had accepted her work excuse the second, but now a third time, and he figured he knew what was really up. But she’d bite his head off if he said a bad word about him in front of the kids, so he stuck to the topic at hand instead.

  “Not the first time one of those has rattled off.”

  “And the helmet?”

  “Left it in a hotel room somewhere.”

  “Uncle Dante!” Marco, his nephew, skirted around his mom. He half swaggered, half jogged across the living room, trying to play it cool but was hopelessly earnest. He held out a fist for a bump. “What’s up?”

  Chris formed a fist to bump back. “Lookin’ sharp, Plato.”

  The nicknames had stuck since he’d first brought Izzy to one of their family dinners. Marco, then just a kid, had wanted one too, so Izzy had reached back into her heritage and picked a famous Greek philosopher.

  With his other arm, Chris caught Marco in a playful chokehold and knuckled his head, messing up the dark curls he’d gelled into submission for Saturday mass. “Fuck, I’m too old for this shit,” Marco protested.

  “Language!” Celia chided as she hefted a tote bag onto the island. Her cuticles were wrecked, not just from caked on shop grease, and the bags under her eyes were more pronounced than last week.

  Laughing to cover his scrutiny, Chris released his nephew and batted down his flailing right hook. “Maybe one day you’ll land it.”

  Marco flipped him off, then snuck behind him to peer into the pot on the stove. “Butter chicken, yes!”

  “Mia will be disappointed she missed it.” Gloria, Chris’s mother, joined Celia beside the island and added a bottle of wine to the bounty.

  “Where is she?” Chris asked after his niece.

  “Dinner with her boyfriend’s family,” Celia answered.

  Marco rolled his eyes, hard, and Chris stifled another laugh as he unloaded the bag. “All I needed was cilantro,” he said, ten other items later.

  “And all I needed was cacciatore for dinner tomorrow night,” Gloria quipped.

  Chris chuckled. “Fair enough.” He finally found the cilantro and set ab
out picking off the leaves while his mother put the rest of her groceries away. “I’ll call the shop tomorrow,” he told his sister. “Set up a time to get the bike fixed.” They, and before them, their father, had put in too much work to keep the classic Hog running. Chris wouldn’t slack off now.

  Celia jutted her chin at the stove. “How much time we got left?”

  “Ten minutes or so. Just waiting on the rice.”

  “No need to call the shop. I have tools and bolts in my truck.”

  Before he could object, Celia was backtracking toward the garage, pulling up her cascade of dark curls as she went. She fumbled with the rubber band around her wrist once, twice, then let the hair fall back down, giving up the effort. More signs of her exhaustion, but gone were the days when they could talk about it, about anything really. Their relationship had changed, irrevocably, a decade ago. Not his choice then, but he hadn’t pushed to repair it over the years and he’d all but abandoned it the past three. Had he missed his chance?

  For now, he’d settle for providing the help she’d accept. He grabbed Marco by the shirt as he tried to sneak out of the kitchen. “Go help your ma.”

  He grumbled about being told what to do, not about the task itself. Like his mom and grandpa, Marco rarely passed up the chance to get his hands greasy. He wasn’t legally old enough to work in the shop yet, but he was there every chance he got. Stripping down to his undershirt, he tossed his tie and dress shirt on the couch before disappearing down the stairs.

  “You didn’t want to come with us to mass?” Gloria asked.

  He bent and kissed her cheek. “Wouldn’t have made it in time.”

  “But you made it here in time to get dinner started?”

  “Priorities,” he confessed with a cheeky grin.

  She swatted his shoulder, then dug the bottle opener out of a drawer. “Shut your mouth before St. Peter hears you.”

  “Pretty sure I’m already on the Do Not Admit list.”

  “Nonsense,” his mother said. “You’re a good boy.” Chris laughed out loud, and she giggled along with him. She’d picked him up from detention enough times to know better. She spritzed the naan with water and tossed it into the preheated oven. “Now that brother-in-law of yours, he’s not getting anywhere near the pearly gates.”

  Just as Chris had suspected. “Dex is gone again?”

  “Hopefully for good.”

  Chris agreed, but they’d said the same thing the countless other times his sister’s sorry excuse for a husband had decided family life wasn’t a good fit for him. “What’s the likelihood of that?”

  “About as likely as you ever settling down.”

  “Ma…”

  “I know.” She picked up her glass and took a swallow of her favorite rosé. “With everything you’ve lost, it’s easier to keep moving. I can’t fault you for that.” Disappointment tangled with compassion in her voice, and Chris ducked his chin to force down the lump in his throat.

  UC work had kept him away except for random fly-bys, and even those had dwindled since Izzy’s death. He missed his family—the humor, the food, the love—but being around them reminded Chris of the other things he missed—the life and future he’d lost. It was easier to ignore the painful losses when he was someplace else, someone else. Izzy had recognized that and steered him onto a new path, one where he could lose himself for weeks, months, on end. He’d be forever in her debt for that blessed courtesy.

  But he couldn’t run forever. Like Celia, he was exhausted, tired of running from his demons. And he wanted to be here for his family. But had he been gone too long to reclaim his spot? Was there a place for him here, for the person he was now? Or would be, when he figured out who the hell that was? He’d cooked and laughed with his family the last few weeks, but it wasn’t the same. They thought he had one foot out the door, as usual. Truth be told, he hadn’t fully committed to stepping over that threshold the other way either.

  Gloria threw an arm around his waist. “I’m glad to have you back in town, for however long you can be here.”

  “Thanks, Ma.” He kissed the top of her salt-and-pepper head. Then took a first step. “I’m hoping it’ll be longer this time.”

  “How much longer?”

  Chris looked from his mother toward the voice, and his gaze clashed with Celia’s dark, haunted one. She stood next to the couch, clutching Marco’s dress shirt.

  He took another step, most of the way over that threshold. “For good, I hope.”

  Gloria gasped, then clapped, while Celia white-knuckled her son’s shirt. “You hope,” his sister scoffed. She looked almost frightened yet sounded pissed he’d added the ‘I hope’ caveat. Did she want him back or not?

  “Cee,” Chris entreated, confused as fuck.

  “Your bike is fixed.” She spun on her heel and headed back toward the garage. “We’re going to the store to grab soda.” The garage door slammed shut behind her, cutting off any reply.

  Gloria rested her weight against Chris’s side. “It’s been a rough week.”

  Chris laughed, both bitter and sympathetic.

  The same dark eyes as his and Celia’s stared up at him. “You too?” his mother asked.

  “Oh yeah, me too.”

  “Butter chicken will fix that.” She lifted her glass and swirled the pink contents. “So will wine.”

  “Pour me a big one, then.”

  Snickering, she poured him a tankard’s worth, far more than was decent in any wine glass. “Are you really coming home?”

  “Can I?”

  “Always, Christopher.” She handed him the glass and clinked the rim of her glass against his. “Well, not to this house, because I’ve earned my peace and quiet, and you have your own home, but you will always have a place in this family.”

  “Thanks, Ma.” He gave her another peck on the head and smiled, covering the worry that still swirled over Celia’s reaction, over what was going on in his sister’s life. Worry that continued to mount as he put the final touches on dinner. Two sets of footsteps were on their way up the stairs, and Chris had just set the steaming plates of rice and butter chicken on the table, when the phone in his apron pocket vibrated. He pulled it out and read the text from Kane.

  Gary Danko. Tomorrow night. 8:30.

  Finally.

  Except now that was another worry added to the mountain.

  Chris drained what was left of his wine and helped himself to another too full glass, muffling his worry and the dangerous hope of home—not just with his family—that threatened to eclipse it.

  Chris flipped the card case in his hand, end over end, in time with his bouncing thoughts and measured steps, back and forth across his study, working off dinner and working through ideas. He had a meet with Hawes tomorrow. Progress. He wanted more.

  But two hours later, the temporary high of forward momentum had withered and died, leaving behind his old friend frustration. His constant companion the past three years.

  Start from the top.

  Izzy’s voice rang in his head—consonants sharp, vowels long, all of it nasal. Her New York accent—Astoria, Queens—had been like nails on a chalkboard at first, grating and obnoxious. Now it was a comfort, if only in his imagination.

  “Hawes Madigan,” he said, speaking to a ghost. “King, head of the empire.” Chris rested on the corner of his paper-strewn desk, which he’d crammed into the bay window nook in the front room of his condo. He glanced at the long wall to his right. It was covered with photos and colorful strings, arranged in a pyramid of sorts. He’d used his and Izzy’s case notes, and the notes from the previous investigations, to construct a hierarchy of the Madigan organization.

  The illegal one.

  Helena and Holt were on either side of Hawes on the top line of the chart. Hawes didn’t make an impact decision without discussing it with his siblings. He was the king as far as the outside world was concerned, but Chris knew his secret, confessed on a night when the crown had been too heavy to bear. Hawes didn’
t want to be king, not if he had to destroy his soul again to do it. It had been a devastating blow when sixteen-year-old Hawes had had to make the call to take his parents off life support. Then last week, he’d had to guide the family through his grandfather’s passing. Hawes needed his siblings to step up and into equal roles in the organization’s leadership apparatus if he was going to survive, regardless of who else was gunning for them.

  On either side of the triumvirate—not a row down, but not quite on the same line—Chris had put the rest of the nuclear family: their grandmother, Rose; Holt’s wife, Amelia; and Kane. Not related by blood or marriage, as far as the chief went, but he was family to them and vice versa. The next line down listed the organization’s lieutenants: Jodie, Ray, Lucas, Avery, Zoe, and Rowe. All of them, except Avery and Zoe, had red string X’s over their pictures—deceased. Below them, captains Chris had heard mention of but hadn’t laid eyes on. And below the captains were soldiers, some of whom Chris had seen at MCS. All in all, not an uncommon structure for a criminal enterprise. More complicated than the mafia but not unlike the cartel Chris had infiltrated in Florida or the gun-running motorcycle club he’d busted in Seattle.

  Where does the next hit come from? Izzy prompted.

  Chris ruled out Hawes’s siblings. He’d mistakenly gone down that path before, wrongfully accusing Holt, and he had the mess on his hands now to show for it. He’d come around to Hawes’s conviction: Holt and Helena wouldn’t turn on their brother. Same as Chris would never turn on Celia. Nor on his mother. He ruled out Rose accordingly, and besides, she’d been in the car with Hawes when they’d been targeted after Papa Cal’s funeral. Taking out the matriarch would have been another powerful blow to the family, possibly too devastating to come back from after just losing Cal.

  Kane was a nonstarter. The chief had nothing to gain and everything to lose from a coup that would overthrow and threaten the trio. Avery had proved her loyalty. Zoe too. Which left…

  “The captains.”

  Unless…

  “An uprising among the soldiers.”

  But Chris doubted a lowly soldier was pulling Amelia’s strings. She was too much of a force in her own right, too focused on power for herself and for Lily’s legacy, albeit a different one than Holt and his siblings wanted for the munchkin. No, someone else with more juice had manipulated Amelia. They’d moved her around the board like they’d done with Jodie, Ray, and Lucas.