by Naomi West
Kong was out. So were Deion and Ford. Mica and Bones and a few others were there though. They had a massive, half-destroyed plate of nachos — ground beef, congealed cheese sauce. Pistol flopped into a ratty armchair, helped himself to the nachos and pretended to watch whatever crap they’d found on Netflix. He fuckin’ wished Deion were here.
“’Bout time you spent some time here,” said a sullen voice.
Pistol looked around. Mica was glowering at him from the couch with the stuffing coming out of it.
“Aw, leave him alone,” Bones said. “He’s got an old lady now. He can’t be bothered with us.”
Pistol ate another nacho and tried to laugh. “Yeah, hey, I got actual responsibilities now.”
“You got responsibilities here too.” God damn. The kid was actually pissed at him. Self-righteous little shit.
“And I’ve been fulfilling them.”
Mica’s stony gaze didn’t budge. “We’ve needed you here.”
Ford turned to Mica. “Yeah, what are you ragging on Pistol for? You’re the one who’s crawled up Smith’s asshole.”
“I havenot.”
“Yeah, he sends you on all his big important missions, doesn’t he? What do you do in return? Blow his old wrinkly dick?”
“Fuck off; not my fault if I like making money.” Mica’s chin was thrust out, his eyes cold. “You’re the one who’s too blinded by your girl’s titties to make a—”
“I won’t be talked to like that by some snot-nosed punk.”
“Looks like all the pussy’s gone to your head, old man!”
“I’m doing what I have to in order to keep us all alive,” Pistol snarled. “You want to challenge my decisions, go ahead. Let’s do this. Man to man.” He assumed a fighter’s stance.
“Hey, man, no,” Ford said, but it was a halfhearted protest. All the Blackened Souls were desperate enough for a release of tension that they simply gathered around to watch as Mica and Pistol circled each other.
So much like me, Pistol thought, taking in the anger in Mica’s eyes. Lashing out at the whole damn world.
He knew infighting wasn’t going to solve anything. He knew this wasn’t how the brotherhood was supposed to work. He knew it would make him the bigger man to stand down, to refuse to fight a kid. But in that moment, he hated Mica. Hated him for being so much like a younger version of Pistol. Mica was that ghost Pistol couldn’t kill, the boy who’d left his mother to destroy herself, to die alone on her kitchen floor, next to a trashcan full of needles. The kid who’d run away to San Antonio instead of staying and working through the tough shit and learning to be a man. Right now, Pistol wanted to punch Mica’s nose right through the back of his head.
Mica took the first swing. It was a little clumsy, but not nearly as clumsy as Pistol would have expected. The kid had had some practice. The blow glanced off Pistol’s jaw, and Pistol retaliated, landing a solid punch to Mica’s gut.
The kid doubled over, but was right back up again, swinging now with a blind fury. Pistol punched him on the left cheek, sending him reeling.
There were no cheers from the bystanders. The room was eerily silent except for Ford, offering another halfhearted, “Christ, you idiots, that’s enough.”
But Mica was panting, rapid with fury. He lunged at Pistol, and Pistol kicked his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling. He kicked the kid in the stomach. Over and over again.
That’s where you belong, boy. Crawling on the ground. On your belly like a dog. You’ve never been worth anything. Never done anything good for anybody.
Mica spit blood. His lip was split, and his nose was bleeding. When had that happened? Pistol stared down at Mica, chest heaving.
Stop. Stop it. This is your brother.
He thought about Katrin’s words.“You’re brave. You’re strong. You matter, Pistol.”
No one had ever been that willing to believe the best in him. Even Kong. Kong had believed Pistol could be trained to be useful. He’d believed Pistol could be loyal. But the potential he’d seen in Pistol was the potential to contribute to a gang of part-time criminals.
Only Katrin seemed to believe that there was a good man hidden somewhere beneath all the scars.
Mica let out a low groan. Tried to sit up.
Slowly, Pistol leaned down and extended a hand.
Mica spit at him.
“What, exactly is going on here?” A low voice growled.
Pistol turned to see Kong standing in the doorway.
Mica collapsed on his stomach, like he didn’t have the energy to go on. Which left Pistol to explain.
“We had to sort something out. We’re cool now.”
“Fuck you,” Mica muttered from the floor.
“He doesn’t look cool.” Kong nodded at Mica. “What the fuck, Pistol? He’s a mess.”
Pistol had no excuse. He’d lost time. Lost control. Had been seventeen again, or else had been fighting a seventeen-year-old ghost. He wasn’t sure.
“Sorry,” Pistol muttered.
“Is that how you treat a brother?”
Rage flared in Pistol.You sanctimonious prick. After all the times you’ve sat up and begged when Smith snapped his fingers…“What about you?” Pistol shot back. “Maybe if you were actually in charge here, we wouldn’t all be on edge.”
Kong’s dark eyes narrowed. “Are you blaming me for your lack of control?”
“No. I’m blaming you for not being able to take your mouth off Smith’s dick long enough to be our goddamn President.”
The tension in the room ratcheted up about fifteen notches. Pistol could feel Ford flinch. Mica had gone completely still at Pistol’s feet.
Kong stepped toward him, eyes blazing. “What did you just say to me?”
“You heard me,” Pistol replied through his teeth.
“I hope to God I didn’t.”
“I told him.” Mica’s voice was hoarse. “I told him, he thinks he’s too good for us now. Takes his cut of the money and spends it on his piece of ass.”
Pistol nearly kicked him again.
“Quiet!” Kong barked at Mica.
“It’s true.”
Pistol whirled. “And you,” he shouted at Mica. “You’re just as bad. You see a chance to play with some new toys, so you buried your nose between Smith’s asscheeks like a damn dog.”
“Enough,” Kong roared. “Pistol, if you can’t control yourself, then leave.”
“I was just going.” He checked Kong hard with his shoulder as he passed. “Just make sure you don’t choke on Smith’s balls,” he snapped as he went.
He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the house rattled.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Katrin stared at the test. Two blue lines.
She was pregnant. She was actually pregnant with Pistol Wilson’s baby.
She sat down on the toilet lid and buried her face in her hands.
She couldn’t ignore this anymore. Couldn’t hope for the best. She had to tell Pistol, and they had to work out a plan of action.
What the hell would happen when her father found out? The thought made her queasy. She could already hear the faux tenderness in his voice: “Congratulations sweetheart. Looks like I’ll finally get my grandbaby.”
No. No, I have to protect this child, whatever the cost. I can’t let my father know.
She unburied her face and took her phone from her pocket. She should call Pistol. Tell him right now. But she didn’t want to break news like this over the phone. She needed to see his face. Needed to know if he’d really be as devastated as she feared he’d be.
So she’d wait until he came home. She’d go back to her freelancing project, and when he got home, they’d figure out what to do.
Except when Pistol got home, there was something different about him. A cold fury that radiated from his body. A tension in his neck and shoulders, a warning in his gaze.
“Pistol,” she started, leaning against the counter, watching him fairly slam his jac
ket onto the laundry room coat hook.
He stepped into the kitchen. She saw that his knuckles were abraded, that there was blood on one leg of his jeans and on one of his boots.
Her mouth fell open. “Pistol, what happened?”
“Fight,” he muttered.
“With who?”
He glared at her. She was starting to recognize that expression. I dare you to judge me, it said. “One of my brothers.”
“Jesus,” she breathed, looking at the blood again. “What happened?”
“Kid got too big for his britches. I put him in his place.”
She inhaled sharply. “Pistol!”
“I just got an earful from Kong. I don’t need you lecturing me either.” His gaze was stony, hollow.
How could she tell him now? When he was like this?
She went to him and tentatively put her arms around him. At first, he tensed, and she worried he might push her away. But suddenly he sagged, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her so tightly it almost hurt.
“I need you,” he whispered against her neck. “You’re all I have now.”
Something about the vulnerability in those words broke her heart. She held him tightly, wanting him to know it would be okay.
Tell him. You have to tell him.
“Shh,’ she murmured. “It’s all right now.”
“It’s not all right,” he said savagely, pulling away and striding across the room. “I might have just cut ties with them for good.”
“But…” She didn’t know what to say.
“Except your father. Your father still owns my sorry ass.”
She stepped toward him, determination rising in her, her voice firm. “No, he doesn’t. Don’t say that.”
Pistol laughed humorlessly. “Why not? It’s true.”
“We’re going to figure out what to do.”
Pistol whirled. “We keep saying that. Both of us. And yet we don’t do anything. We’re like figurines in his little dollhouse.”
“So let’s do something. Let’s make a plan. Let’s decide when we’re going to leave. Figure out what it’ll take to get new identities. And then let’s do it.”
It was like holding a match to the wick of a candle — she could see the moment her determination lit his, the way the flame slowly rose in his eyes.
“Okay. Okay, let’s do that. We’ll need money, but I can get that. Give me three days.”
“I’ll finish this transcription assignment tomorrow. Then we’ll have a couple hundred extra from that.”
He gazed into her eyes. Cupped her face in his hands. “We’re really doing this, huh?”
She placed her hands over his. “We’re really doing it.”
Her heart pounded with fear — for the two of them. For her unborn child. But on the outside, she was steady.
He leaned down, and she pushed herself up to meet him. Crushed her lips against his. It was a long, passionate kiss, one she felt in every nerve of her body.
Three days. Three days, and they would find the freedom they both desperately sought.
“Together,” he whispered, looking into her eyes again.
“No matter what,” she whispered.
###
It was the eighth text he’d gotten from Deion that day. This time Deion wasn’t mincing words.
Get your ass over to the clubhouse.
The first three texts had inquired as to why Pistol was absent from the auto shop. The next four told him in progressively more insistent terms that he needed to go make things right with Kong, with the other Souls.
What was the point? The Blackened Souls were fucking doomed. Leonard Smith owned them now, and Pistol ought to cut ties with them for good. Ought to leave with Katrin, right now. Three days, he reminded himself. Three days to get as much cash as he could.
They had a little saved, but they needed more if they were going to truly and effectively hide themselves from Leonard’s watchful eye.
Pistol?More texts.Talk to me. Please.
Damn, you’re worse than a woman, he texted back, then felt a stab of guilt. He needed to quit saying shit like that.
I’m serious, buddy. This is important.
Ok, he texted finally.Be there soon.
Pistol rode to the clubhouse, still feeling out of sync with the rest of the world. Everything looked strange — sort of shadowy and gray. He’d slept uneasily last night, both excited about the possibility of sweeping Katrin off into a new life, and terrified that he could never really be what she needed him to be.
His heart sank when he saw Smith’s car parked outside the clubhouse.
Motherfucker.
He hopped off the bike in the driveway. Propped it up and went through the back door.
Immediately, he could tell something wasn’t right. It was like the first time Smith had made an appearance at the clubhouse, but worse. Everyone was tense. Bones had an expression like someone had died.
Deion stepped forward to greet him. Clapped him on the back. “Hey, man. Glad you made it.”
“What’s going on?” Pistol asked.
Deion led him into the hall. Nodded at the closed door to Kong’s office. Low voices sounded from within. “They’ve been in there all morning,” Deion said. “Talking. I think something big’s about to go down.”
A couple of the Souls gave Pistol uneasy looks. A couple of others greeted him like he still belonged here. That was something, he supposed.
They waited. Pistol was about to fucking nod off by the time the door opened. Leonard and Kong walked out together. Pistol was immediately alert, looking at Kong’s face for any indication of what was going on. Kong’s expression gave away nothing.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Leonard said, giving the Blackened Souls an insincere smile. “Your president and I have an announcement.”
Those who had been in other rooms made their way into the hall to listen.
Pistol’s heart beat wildly.
What are you playin’ at now, you sick bastard?
“You see, tonight is the night the rest of my shipment comes in. It’s the largest shipment you’ll have ever dealt with. I’ll need several of you to join my men in collecting it.
The Souls were silent.
Kong nodded, looking weary. “There’s big profits, you guys.”
Leonard pointed at Mica. “You, Mica. I’ll need your help. This time Mica didn’t preen at all. He looked nervous.
Smith indicated Deion. “You. You’ll go as well.”
He named a few more club members.
Jesus, that’s practically all of us, Pistol thought.
Finally, Leonard turned and nodded politely at Pistol. “And you, Pistol. You’ll lead.”
“What?”
“You’ll be in charge of the mission.”
What the fuck? Smith hated him. Why would Smith trust him with a mission this huge? Why not put one of his own men in charge?
“Don’t you need me home impregnating your daughter, asshole?”
“This is a very serious mission. You leave in two hours. You’ll go down to Mexico. Once it gets dark, my contacts will meet you there with the shipment. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you not to screw this up. I can’t emphasize how much you’ll regret it if you do.” He looked right at Pistol. “Are we clear?”
Not now. Not when Katrin and I are so close to leaving…
But here was the perfect chance to get the money they needed.
Pistol nodded grimly. “Crystal.”
“Excellent. Be ready to ride out at precisely six.”
He left.
The silence that descended then was eerie.
Mica lurked nearby, glowering at Pistol.
“Hey,” Pistol said. “If we’re gonna ride together, we need to have each other’s backs. No more of this bullshit.” He held out a hand. “I’m sorry.”
Mica grudgingly shook his hand. “Me too,” he muttered.
“Brothers,” Pistol reminded him firmly.
&nbs
p; The kid nodded.
###
Katrin was ready when Pistol arrived home. She’d spent the day rehearsing what she wanted to say.
There was a hard, frantic energy about her husband again today. But she ignored it. She had to tell him. As he stepped into the kitchen, she opened her mouth to say she had something to tell him. But before she could, he spoke.
