Savage Things (Chaos & Ruin Book 2)

by Callie Hart

  The kid with the buzz cut rolls his eyes. “You think I struggle getting tail? Do you? Really? I bet if I asked this lovely young thing out on a date, she’d say yes, wouldn’t you, doc?” He sends a heavily suggestive wink my way.

  “Don’t you be hassling that young woman,” Cynthia calls. “She’s got a beau at home already. Why don’t you come and lay some of that charm on this single old woman, huh? I wouldn’t mind the attention none.” The cheeky old girl has a goddamn beer bottle in her hand. I grab it from her just before she can raise it to her lips and take a swig.

  “Whoa, now. You aren’t allowed that, Miss Cynthia. You just had heart surgery.”

  “What about intercourse?” she asks. “You know…nookie. Might that be possible?” She cuts her eyes at the fire fighter standing next to her, her eyes glinting brightly. He pretends like he didn’t hear her, but the tips of his ears are turning redder and redder by the second, and I can’t help but feel a little sorry for the guy; she’s incorrigible.

  “I’m afraid you need to lay off any strenuous physical activity for the next little while as well. Your doctor will give you the go-ahead when he thinks you’re fit enough to cope with the…excitement.”

  Cynthia beams at the fire fighter. “Think you could come back and visit in a few weeks, hot stuff?”

  Chapter Twelve

  ZETH

  The thing about promises is that they’re often really inconvenient and difficult to keep. I swore I wouldn’t put Mason in the ground for what he’s done, but I wonder just how pissed Sloane will be if I just gave him a gentle beating? A light ass kicking? Just one little black eye? Seems unfair to me that I should be expected to leave him entirely in one piece. Really, if there was any justice in the world, I’d be allowed to give him a good hiding just once.

  Now all I’m allowed to do is use him to feed information to Lowell, and that’s nowhere near as satisfying. Could come in handy, though. It’s been five days and I haven’t come up with something appropriate to have him relay yet, but I’m sure I’ll think of something. In the meantime, I have to make sure everything appears normal. The gym has to be opened. Sloane has to go to work. Mason still has to come train after he’s done at the auto mechanics—which I personally fucking hate, I don’t even want to lay eyes on the fucker—and Michael has to keep doing his thing, too.

  So there it is. Business as usual.

  I’m driving across the city toward the gym when I notice the Denali with tinted windows behind me, following two cars back. That certainly isn’t business as usual. I drive this route every day, twice a day, sometimes more, and I’m always hyper aware of my surroundings. No way a Denali would be tailing me for so long, indicating, changing lanes, taking exits exactly as I take exits, without there being some reason. That reason is obvious: Lowell’s gotten bored of waiting for me to slip up and do something wrong, so she’s following me, waiting for the right moment to pounce. It’s a surprise she hasn’t arrested me already, given her propensity to act first and figure shit out later, but maybe her higher ups have slapped her wrists a couple of times. Her partner was killed months back at a shoot out in the fucking hospital, for crying out loud. It’s a miracle she’s allowed anywhere near this case.

  I downshift, slowing so I can drift casually into the right hand lane. Up ahead, the turn off for Hunt’s Point is fast approaching. I indicate, steering the car onto the exit ramp, watching in the rear view mirror as, two cars back, the Denali with the blackened out windows follows my lead. Only one car between us now. My brain switches to autopilot, following an automatic route through quiet, leafy neighborhood streets, past oversized McMansions, Mexican gardeners with woolen hats pulled down low over their ears, kids in strollers, dogs on leads, and the Denali follows.

  She has to fucking know I’ve made her by now. No way she can think I haven’t noticed her, practically jammed up my exhaust pipe. She should be way fucking better at this. I quit looking in my rear view, and I’m shocked when I realize where I’ve driven myself. The old house I grew up in looms high above the road, set back in amongst a wall of eight-foot high pine and spruce trees. The corner of the basketball court out the back of the house is just about visible, as I roll the Camaro up alongside the curb. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end.

  I never made a plan where I decided I would never come back to this house. A plan like that didn’t seem necessary. Why the fuck would I come back to Charlie’s place? To the place where I fought off demons in the night. To the place where nightmares were real, tangible, wicked things that would haunt you the moment you closed your eyes.

  Behind me, the Denali comes to a halt as well. You have got to be fucking kidding me? This bitch is insane. Can she really have balls this big? She must want me to know she’s following me; that’s the only explanation for this blatant behavior. Well, if she thinks she’s going to intimidate me, she has another fucking thing coming. Psycho bitch. I get out of the car, slamming the door closed behind me, and I storm up to the driver’s window of the Denali, blood surging through my veins, head pounding, my body already charged and ready for violence. Will I hit her? Damn fucking right I will. I think about knocking on the window, waiting for it to buzz down before unleashing my fists, but I can’t talk myself into being so polite. Instead, I pull back my hand and I swing, smashing my way through the thickened glass. Car windows are designed to shatter, and the Denali’s window does exactly that, the glass exploding into a thousand tiny cubed pieces and raining down on the sidewalk. Inside, I hear someone scrambling, rearing back as the glass pours in on them, too.

  “Fuck! Fuck you, man!” someone yells. A guy? So Lowell had one of her lackeys in the driver’s seat. Why am I not surprised? I can picture her in the back seat of the car, barking out orders as her little DEA minion obeys her every command. I’m just waiting for the bitch to climb out of the car, cool as cool can be, ready to threaten arrest for damage to government property, when the polished, unmistakable barrel of a gun appears through the broken window.

  “Back up, motherfucker. Back the fuck up right now.”

  DEA agents can’t just fucking shoot you for no reason, but then again I have given them a reason. I’m a hostile; I just attacked their car. It would be so fucking easy for them to get away with plugging me full of bullets and letting me bleed out right here on the cement.

  I hate to have to give this guy what he wants, but I also don’t feel like getting shot in the face today. I take a step back from the window. Where the fuck is my gun? How in god’s name did I climb out of the Camaro without the fucking thing? I guess if I get shot and die right now, it’ll serve me fucking right. More glass tinkles onto the sidewalk as the driver tries to open his door, which seems to be jammed. A long moment follows, where the idiot inside the vehicle throws some weight behind the door and eventually forces it open. He climbs out of the car, still holding the gun in one hand, while brushing fragments of glass from his lap with the other.

  Suit and tie. Not a DEA suit and tie—no, it’s way too nice to have been purchased on a civil servant’s pay check. Looks like Armani. Michael would know better than me, but he’s not here to confirm either way. Dark shades. Slicked back hair. The kind of stubble guys pay forty dollars in a barber’s shop to have shaped and kept neat and tidy while they sip on a complimentary beer. I find myself suddenly doubtful. This guy’s a cop? No fucking way. He oozes attitude, which wouldn’t have necessarily ruled him out as five-oh, but there’s something else…

  The way he’s holding his gun.

  Cops all hold their guns the same way, shoulder hitched up, elbow locked and rigid, left hand cupped underneath the right, providing a stable platform of support. They stare at you down the length of their weapons, locking you in their sights, ready at all times to pull the trigger and end your life. It’s a recognizable stance, the country over, and this guy doesn’t have it.

  He holds his gun like a criminal, like he’s pointing a finger at you and the weapon is merely an exten
sion of his hand. He’s not aiming the thing. He’s just stabbing it in my general direction, expecting it to do all of the hard work on its own. “You just made a big fucking mistake, Mr. Mayfair,” he tells me. “This is an airport rental, and I didn’t get insurance.”

  “More fool you,” I grind out through clenched teeth. “Should have known better if you planned on following a guy like me around like a bad fucking smell. Where the hell is she?”

  “She?” The dark-haired guy frowns as he removes the safety from his handgun. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

  “Lowell.” It’s worth a shot. If I see one flicker of recognition on the guy, I’ll know he’s acting with Denise.

  “I don’t know any Lowell, Mr. Mayfair. The only woman I know in town is that hot piece of ass girlfriend of yours. What’s she called again? Sarah? No, that’s it. Sloane.”

  I say nothing. I don’t want to lose my cool too soon. If he mentions Sloane one more time, I won’t be able to help myself, but in the meantime I need to figure out what the fuck is going on. “Why the fuck are you following me?” I snarl.

  The guy shrugs, the hand that’s holding his gun wavering as he makes a disinterested pout. “Just doing what I’m told, I’m afraid. I’ve come a long way to see you, Mr. Mayfair.”

  “I’m a very busy man. You should have made an appointment.”

  “I would have, but I don’t like your secretary too much. A little too…masculine for my liking. I prefer them to be a little leggier. Big boobs. No predisposition to murder anyone who happens to show up on their doorstep without an invitation.”

  “What can I say? Michael knows who I have time for and who I don’t. He’s very good at his job.”

  “And I am good at mine.”

  I detect the clipped cadence of his speech and the hint of an accent—a Bronx or Brooklyn twang that tells me this guy isn’t from here. At best guess, he’s a New Yorker. He’s a little far from home if that’s the case. I smile, the right side of my mouth twisting upward as I scan him for further details that might tell me exactly where he’s come from and what his plans are here. He must want violence. No one in their right minds would track me down and take me on if they just wanted to hang out. The guy brushes back his hair, flattening down the section that’s escaped the oil slick product he has in there, and is hanging down into his face.

  “Gonna introduce yourself?” I ask.

  “My name’s Milo Barbieri. I doubt you’ve heard of me.” He says this like it’s a joke, though, and I obviously must know exactly who he is. I’ve heard the last name, of course, but Milo? He’s not one of Roberto’s sons. Not even a nephew. He must be a distant relative or something. Someone low ranking enough that they’ve had to make the trip across the county to see little ol’ me. I’m fucking flattered.

  “You hide behind those shades all day?” I snap. I want to get a proper look at this asshole.

  “Only when the sun’s out,” he replies. “Don’t worry. If you’re wondering what kind of guy I am, I can give you a brief rundown and we can dispense with the posturing. I’m one of the bad guys. I steal money from old ladies. I’ve killed a bunch of people. I’ve been in jail more times than I can count. What about you, Mr. Mayfair? You’re the same as me, no?”

  “Maybe once upon a time. Not anymore.”

  The guy with the gun looks a little saddened. “So the legends of the infamous Zeth Mayfair are all untrue. I have to say, that’s a little disappointing. I thought I might get to have a little fun with you while I was out here. Thought maybe we could tear it up, raise some hell. I can see I was wrong.”

  This guy is testing my patience. He’s incompetent as fuck—I could rush him and take that weapon from him any second and he wouldn’t see me coming. Some men think they’re in charge because they’re holding a weapon, the same way some men think they get to fuck because they have their dicks in their hands. They don’t seem to realize that without pulling the trigger, in both situations their posturing is nothing more than masturbation. “Just get on with it,” I growl. “Why the fuck are you here?” I already know he’s organized crime. Disorganized crime, more like. I just need to hear him say it.

  “My boss sent me to see if you’ve had time to reconsider his offer, Mr. Mayfair,” he informs me.

  “And your boss would be the Butcher, of course?”

  “Correct. He called you personally not too long ago, offering to form an allegiance with you. You were very rude to him, Mr. Mayfair. Very rude indeed.”

  “Apologies,” I say, my voice thick with sarcasm. “But as you can imagine, I don’t like being threatened.”

  “Mr. Barbieri didn’t threaten you, Zeth. He merely asked you to join forces with him. He offered you quite a sweet deal, if I recall correctly. All of Seattle in return for your obedience. That’s more than he’s ever offered anyone else.”

  “And if I refused to offer him my obedience, I would be seen as a danger to his operation. If that’s not a threat, then I don’t know what is.”

  “You’re mistaken. That was simply…” He shrugs. “A display of logic? You’re a well-respected man, Zeth. People in this town won’t fuck with you. If you say something is law, the people selling drugs, guns and women in this town accept that it’s fucking law. If you say the Italians aren’t allowed to expand their business to the west coast, then people are going to rebel against it. They’ll get ideas about how they can and can’t interact with us. My employer, Mr. Barbieri, he doesn’t like friction, see. He’s a man that likes things to run smoothly at all times. No dissention. No civil wars or insurgency. He used to be in the military back in Italy, once upon a time, and he’s retained that military mindset all his life. You can imagine how something messy and unfinished might make him uneasy. And this situation with you is definitely both messy and unfinished.”

  “I don’t see it as either of those things,” I tell him. “I think it’s very clear cut. I’m not working for some psychotic bastard in New York. I’m not going to align myself with someone like him. My last boss was unhinged, and I’m sure yours is, too.”

  The guy makes a noncommittal grunting sound. “All men who lead are just a little crazy.”

  “Yes. And those who follow are even crazier. I’m done being a follower.”

  Leaning against the side of the car, the Italian takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, removes one and places it between his lips. His polished silver lighter makes a loud schink-ing sound as he strikes the wheel against the leg of his pants. The flame flickers, almost guttering out before the cigarette is lit. “So, I go back to New York, and I tell Mr. Barbieri what? That I came all the way out here and you turned me down flat? That ain’t gonna fly, big man. It’s one thing being rude to my boss on the phone. Being rude to an envoy? That’s gonna piss him off beyond all belief.”

  “Damn. Now I feel bad. How pissed off is he gonna be when he sees what I’ve done to your face?”

  The Italian draws on his cigarette. Blows out the smoke as he laughs. He scratches his temple with the slide of his gun. “You’re a ridiculous human being, Mr. Mayfair. You’ve got balls. I don’t get to meet many guys like you in my line of work. Hard men on the east coast…well, they’re only hard until you point something sharp and shiny at them. After that, they’re pissin’ all over themselves and trying to sell their own mother in order to find their way into your good graces. You, on the other hand…I like you. You’re not the kind of guy to back down from a fight, even when you know you can’t win.”

  “Who says I can’t win?”

  The Italian holds up the gun in his hand, head angled to one side—forgot about this, did you, jackhole? He favors me with another one of those friendly, aren’t-we-having-the-best-time bouts of airy laughter. “I heard some pretty intense things about you, man, but I’ve never heard anyone claim you’re superman. Ain’t no outrunning a bullet, Zeth.”

  “It’s not a question of outrunning anything,” I say. “More a matter of aim. And focus. And nerve.” I t
ake a step toward him, ignoring the gun he has outstretched in his hand once more. The Italian takes another drag from his cigarette, blowing the fumes down his nose in twin plumes of smoke cloud around his head.

  “I don’t miss, Zeth. If you want to find that out for yourself, be my guest.”

  I do want to find out for myself. To be fair to this guy, whoever the fuck he is, he has some balls himself. We’re out in the open in the middle of the day, in a neighborhood not known for it’s high crime rate. He’s standing here like he hasn’t got a care in the world, waving a gun around like it’s his rolled up morning newspaper. I don’t doubt for a second that he will shoot. I don’t doubt for a second that he’s a good shot; the familiarity and ease with which he holds his weapon says he’s spent a lot of quality bonding time with it. I do think he has underestimated me, though. See, I’m a big fucking guy. I’m tall and I’m broad, and I’m built like a motherfucking Sherman tank. Guys like this average height, narrow-chested Italian take one look at me and they see a great, lumbering force that, once within arms reach, will knock your fucking head off. They figure as long as they don’t let me get close enough, they’re safe, though. But they don’t factor into the equation the fact that I am really fucking fast. I spend an hour a day sprinting on a goddamn treadmill. It’s my job to be quick, unbelievably light on my feet, as I toss guy after guy around like ragdolls in the cage.

  And so, this visitor from the Big Apple is about to get a lesson in humility. He’s not likely to underestimate another of his opponents again, that’s for sure.

  “Why don’t you take a second, Mr. Mayfair?” he says, flashing his teeth at me. “Think this through a little. Can’t take back rash decisions, you know.”

  I’m done with talking to this guy. I’m done wasting breath telling him the same thing over and over again. I take a step to the right. The guy follows me with his gun, a hard light glinting in his eyes, as if he’s seen the resolve in mine and recognized it for what it is—my absolute desire to cause him pain. He’s watching my right hand, waiting for me to try and knock his weapon out of his hand with my left, so I can bring my fist crashing down into his face, but that’s not what’s about to happen.