by Max Henry
“We feel this is a necessary risk,” Bronx calmly replies.
“It’s not,” Callum drops bluntly. “I understand revenge, I do. But guys, come on,” he says, screwing up his face. “Think of how many brothers you’ve lost already. Do you want to keep this shit up until you fuckers are extinct?”
Alice’s nostrils flare, a sure sign he’s aware that King is speaking the truth, but refuses to acknowledge it. Bronx nods, and twiddles his thumbs on the table top. Keeping his eyes trained on the movement, he speaks to Alice.
“Perhaps we need to let it lie this time.”
Alice snorts in response. “Are you serious? You’re one of us, right?”
“Of course I fucking am,” Bronx bites, “but Jesus, Malice, they have a point. How many of us need to walk to our own deaths before we step back and calculate the risk?”
“If you can sleep at night letting Tigger down like that, then fine, do nothing. But we should be stringing that fucker up and gutting him for what he did.”
The boys are damn near shouting at each other, and yet, Sawyer stays as still as a statue, staring at that damn wall.
“Tigger let us down,” Ty booms from where he’s remerged at the entrance to the kitchen. “Our brother, a man we trusted, lied to us and put us all at risk. He fucking set us up for this fall, Malice, so let it go.”
“Whatever.” He stands and marches out of the room. Always a Hollywood.
Ty takes his vacated seat and props his elbows on the table. “He’ll come around,” he says to none of us in particular.
King draws a deep breath, and stands. “Well, as much as I’d love to sit around and chew the fat, we have a meeting to get to.”
I nod, and push out from the table. “That we do.”
Sonya helps Jane clear the plates, and disappears back to the kitchen. I leave the other two at the table and join Callum and King in gearing up. Alice is still sulking in his room when I pass by on the way to get my Beretta from the spare room. I listen to the soft tones of Ramona’s voice filter through the wall as she reads Mack his story while I unpack the gun and its clip. Assembling the two pieces as I walk back to the lounge, I hear Jane talking to Alice, and pause.
“You need to let them handle it.”
“I feel like I’m disrespecting him by walking away from this,” Alice explains.
“Yeah, but Ty had a point—Tigger let you all down by doing what he did.”
I sneak a peek at the two of them as I carry-on by and see Alice with his head hanging, but nodding. Hopefully he understands, and despite his stubborn nature he’ll be able to accept that we’re only doing this to keep him safe, not out of disrespect for the loss he and his boys experienced.
Callum has moved to the armchair when I re-enter the living room, and sits strapping a holster over his shoulder. The bulge of King’s Glock is evident under his shirt at his waistband, and he checks the boot knife he carries everywhere with him, chance of danger or not. I double-check my piece and tuck it out of sight, ready to leave.
“How long are we expecting you gone for?” Sonya asks from behind, startling me.
“Two hours tops,” I tell her. “We can’t be completely sure.”
She nods, and stares wistfully out the window into the dark. “That’s fine. I just wanted a benchmark so we know when we need to come up with Plan B.”
“Baby,” I say, taking her face in my hands, “you won’t need Plan B. It’s just a meet.”
“With Carlos,” she hisses under her breath. “You know what that man does, what he’s capable of.”
“And Sawyer knew that before he made each and every one of his decisions, too.”
She looks past me to Sawyer and sighs. “Are you sure using him is the best idea? What if Carlos just takes him back and hurts him for fun? What if he tortures him for being so disrespectful?”
“That’s Sawyer’s cross to bear.”
Her eyes glisten, and I frown. There’s no reason why she should feel terrible for the guy. “Sweetheart, this is not on you, so stop it.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. “It’s just hard when I remember how things used to be.”
“I know. But you can’t dwell on what you cannot change.” Because haven’t I learnt that the hard way?
“Take care,” she says simply, patting my chest.
Sonya makes her move to leave, but I snatch her wrist and haul her back to me. Her body crashes into mine, and I wrap my arms around her waist. “Don’t you dare walk away like that.” I lean in, and take a kiss for the road. “Better.”
She smiles, and it’s all I need to make sure I come back.
“You ready?” King calls.
I nod, and run my thumb over Sonya’s soft cheek.
“Go,” she whispers, and pulls away.
My heart is torn, but my head is firmly in the game. As long as it stays that way I’ll be fine, because we all know how fucked I’ll be if my heart is the one leading the way.
Callum and King lift Sawyer to his feet, his ropes having been altered, and he shuffles toward the door. They usher him down the steps and across to Ty’s car. Having three bikes and one tied prisoner was never going to be logistically possible, so Ty offered his vehicle.
Sawyer is restrained in the back, his ropes wound through the seatbelts, and his hands bound to his sides so he has no hope in hell of undoing buckles, moving, or even so much as scratching his ass without assistance. Callum gets in the driver’s seat, and follows King down the driveway. I ride tail end.
It’s a sorry procession, and I hope like hell the last one of its kind that I’ll ever have to be a part of.
• • • • •
“YOU THINK they’ll be late just to try and psych us out?” King asks, swinging his feet.
I sit beside him on a low half-log fence behind a set of bleachers, and shrug. “Probably. Wouldn’t put it past them.”
We each stare off into the dark in separate directions. Callum sits in the Audi, obscured from view, inside of a nearby parking garage. We’re keeping Sawyer out of sight until we’re sure things aren’t going to start off hostile. Carlos requested the meet be set up at a local park; open for no chance of ambush, yet secluded by the fact the entire parkland is set higher than the road which flanks it. I’m not sure if I should be relieved by that or concerned.
“Pity we couldn’t stick around for Bruiser’s funeral,” I muse. “It’s disrespectful if none of us go.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” King says. “His family vetoed any of us going, anyway.”
“Really?” I turn to look at him, a grey silhouette with a burning amber spark igniting amongst it.
He lets out the puff of smoke he drew in, and nods. “His mom went nuts when she found out. Started cussing us all out, blamed us for it, threatened to call the cops.” He chuckles. “Shit, the woman even threw a fuckin’ stool at me.”
I laugh at the thought of it—our pres ducking for cover from the wrath of a tiny black woman. “Did she get you with the stool?”
“Fuckin’ close, I swear.”
A set of headlights rounds the sweep of the roadway, and we both drop the humor. Game face on, I slip off the fence and walk out to meet the approaching car. King steps in front of me, and we stand in silence, watching the Dodge come to a stop. My hand goes to the Beretta at my side, and I catch King in my peripheral doing the same.
The driver’s door opens, and a stony-faced guy who looks as if he chows down ’roids for breakfast steps out. He rounds the vehicle, paying us no mind, but I’m damn certain we’re being watched. The thug opens the rear door, and King and I collectively suck in a sharp breath. The way this asshole greets us is going to set the tone for how the rest of the evening—let alone our lives—plays out.
Carlos rises from the vehicle and extends to his full height. I’ve only seen the guy once before, but the thing that never leaves you about the silver fox is his tall stature. The man stands an easy six-foo
t-four in the shade. He’s intimidating even before he opens his mouth, and that’s not an accolade I award lightly.
He moves towards us, all fake grace and charm in his expensive suit, and comes to a stop about three feet in front of me. I hold his gaze despite the fact his eyes are hidden away behind shades . . . at night. Go figure.
“King. I heard the name after Apex passed and wondered.” Carlos holds his hand out. “Now I know.”
“That you do,” King says, shaking his hand firmly. “It’s been a while.”
He studies King with the kind of interest somebody shows a petulant child. “Never thought you’d make it this far; you always had too much heart for the big decisions.”
“I seem to remember you used to have one, too.” King narrows his gaze.
I shift between my feet, the nervous energy within me looking for an outlet.
“Business boys; let’s get to it,” Carlos snaps. “I’m between a dinner date and another important commitment, so do excuse me if I press this along.”
“Hardly in the mood to sit and reminisce either,” King responds. “I’ve already told you what our requests are, so what will your conditions be?”
Carlos chuckles, and fiddles with a cufflink. “So eager.” He turns his head, and nods at the brute by the car. “Cigars, Eric.”
Eric, the brute, reaches in to the Dodge and comes out with a mahogany box. He presents it to Carlos, who runs his fingers over the contents and then picks a slim-line cigar from the velvety confines. He snips the end, and returns the cutter to Eric. The brute diligently holds out a lighter, and Carlos brings the cigar to life.
“Been waiting to have this all night,” he muses between puffs. “Dinner was . . . How would you put it? . . . uneventful.”
“Sorry to hear,” King mumbles.
“So,” Carlos continues, “just for arguments sake, let’s be clear on the terms. What are your demands of me?”
I scowl at the way he effortlessly makes it sound as though we’re the ones putting him out in this situation. As if he has a damn right to be lopping off the heads of anybody who disappoints him.
“Drop the hits you have on the Butcher Boys,” King says without hesitation. “No harassment, no more contracts between you and them, nothing. All contact ends tonight.”
“Oh, dear me,” Carlos exclaims, holding his free hand to his heart. “I forgot to pass on my condolences. I’m truly so sorry to hear about Bruiser.” He snickers, and moves his free hand to the elbow of his cigar arm. “Though, I lost a lot of business because of that Tigger child,” he grumbles. “Why would I simply drop everything at your request?”
“You’re the one in the best position to recover that distribution,” King replies. “What more can the Butcher Boys do for you?”
Carlos watches King with interest as he snaps his fingers for the lighter. “You’re right, but it wasn’t my mess to clean up to begin with.” He takes the Zippo from Eric, and holds the flame to the cigar.
King grumbles, and crosses his arms. “What are you proposing, then?”
“You lot figure out how you’re going to get my business back, and do it. When I have the distribution back under my umbrella, I’ll leave your little family alone.”
“Seems a lot of risk, for little reward.”
I bristle at King’s flat response. That reward is my kid. Fuck, if this is what it takes, I’ll do it myself.
“We need more,” King states calmly.
I battle to get my breathing under control as Carlos stares King down. “What are you asking for?”
“Ten per cent of future profits.” King holds Carlos’s steely gaze.
My heart is doing overtime. He’s going to align our club with Carlos’s cartel? What the fuck for?
The cigar shrinks as Carlos thinks it over. He crosses his well-dressed legs, and narrows his gaze. “Fine. Anything else?”
“We’ve got one thing hindering our success,” King responds. “And it belongs to you.”
“Sawyer, am I right?”
“Exactly.” King nods.
My anger spiked, I’m in the mood to fuck with someone for a little light relief. I walk a quarter-circle around King and Carlos, and come to a stop beside Eric. He eyes me, but doesn’t shift his stance. Purposefully, I reach for where my gun is holstered, and although his eyes track me he still doesn’t move. A chuckle escapes my lips, and I lean over and whisper in his ear, “Does he let you take charge and go on top sometimes?”
The guy stiffens, but still doesn’t retaliate. Fuck, he trains these guys good.
“I need you to take him off our hands,” King continues. “We need Sawyer out of the way if we’re going to have a fair chance at doing this.”
“Why don’t you just kill him? You know I can’t be bothered with him.”
Yeah, why not?
“I call bullshit,” King replies. “See, I’ve had someone keeping an eye on your outfit, too, and I know you’ve been tracking Sawyer’s movements as closely as we have. Why you’d need to do that if you ‘can’t be bothered with him’ is beyond me.” King shrugs, treading a fine line.
I stare at my president, wondering how many more nuggets of information he plans on popping out tonight.
Carlos puffs on his cigar for a few minutes, also watching King as he stews. “Perhaps I’m simply keeping an eye on Sawyer to make sure he doesn’t compromise my business? I need the little bastard to remember who he’s fucking with—who his father is. The arrogant prick prances around bandying my name like it’s his fucking calling card. I’m tired of his insolence.”
“So tell him that.”
“What are you getting at, King?”
“Why do you think he does half this shit?”
Carlos sucks in a deep breath, and exhales through his nose. “Why do most boys act like little assholes? To get back at their parents.”
“He’s not getting back at you,” King says quietly.
“What do you mean? Why else would he be a constant thorn in my side?”
“He’s trying to get your attention.”
Carlos scoffs, and takes a drag on his cigar. “What would you know, King? Do you even have kids?”
“Yeah,” King admits. “I do.”
I lift an eyebrow at that admission. As far as I ever knew he didn’t. Fuckin’ man is full of surprises . . .
“I brought something along in case you needed convincing,” King announces. “Should I bring it out for you?”
Carlos’s gaze is narrow, his frown deep, and his frustration thick. Either pulling out our trump card will win this over or be a waste of time if Carlos chooses to just kill him.
Carlos evades King’s question, clearly pissed. “Since Tigger was removed from the equation, those others have been asking around, gathering information on me.” He waves the cigar between his fingers. “What exactly are they up to?”
“They were doing that, Carlos, because they thought you killed Tigger,” King explains.
“But I didn’t.” Carlos grins. “Sawyer, one of yours did.”
“They know that now. But like I said, we can’t fix your distribution up if you don’t get Sawyer out of our way. As much as he’s been a pain in the neck for us too, we’d rather he wasn’t killed. We’d hoped you’d have some other way of keeping him . . . distracted.”
Carlos takes a couple of pulls on the cigar, and stares over our heads at nothing. He eventually comes back around, and looks us in the eye in turn. “I’ve got a fair idea what it is that you have to change my mind, but I’m willing to see if I’m right.”
King nods, and reaches for his phone. Eric, snaps to attention, drawing his gun. He trains it at King’s head while I do the same to him.
My Beretta brushes his temple as I speak. “Drop it.”
King slowly produces his phone, free hand raised.
Eric lowers the handgun, and twists his head so my muzzle now rests between his eyes. I slowly re-holster my weapon, and nod to indicate he should do the same.<
br />
King sends off a message to Callum while the rest of us look around at the park, and our general surrounds. Eric clears his throat, and I raise an eyebrow at him; it’s the most noise I’ve heard from the man since they arrived. We all continue to sit, or stand in silence for a while before Carlos’s expression sterns, and he takes another gander in my direction.
“I heard,” Carlos says, “that one of the Butcher Boys is related to one of your men, King.” He waggles the cigar towards me. “This him?”
King looks at me, and I at him. The truth would have come out eventually. “Yeah, that’s me,” I affirm.
“Interesting.” He pulls on the cigar all the while sizing me up. “Wasn’t the one my son killed, was it?”
“No, thankfully.”
“For who?” He chuckles. “Me, or you?”
“Both of us,” I say.
Headlights bathe us in a lazy Mexican wave, and Eric’s hand goes to his gun again. I keep watch on him as Callum brings the Audi to a stop perfectly opposite the Dodge, and gets out. He opens the rear door, and I head over to help him get Sawyer out.
Carlos watches us with interest as, with my hand on his head to guide him out, we present Sawyer. Strangers watching the interaction would struggle to pick the two men are related. Carlos is tall, dark-haired with a fleck of grey. Sawyer is average height, blond. Carlos refined, Sawyer rough, and neither shows a singular ounce of emotion toward the other.
Then again, the matching blank stares they bathe each other in could give the connection away. Like father, like son.
“You take him off our hands, we get your distribution back,” King says. “We’ve had enough of his fuckin’ trouble. Nothing against either of you, but he’s a lot like his old man.”
The thought seems to please Carlos, who grins like the cat who got the cream. “I guess I can work with him.” He walks around his boy, sizing him up, and asks, “What if I say no?”
“Then we’re agreeing to war,” King replies. “I’m not here to fuck around.”
I exchange glances with Callum. Sawyer stands stoically throughout the exchange, the same vacant expression on his face as he held at the house. A person has to wonder if the kid’s mind has checked out already. I sure as shit know mine would have, if I knew I had the high probability of going home with that psychopath.
