He did curl his hands into fists, this time, felt the old, reassuring crack of his knuckles; glanced briefly down at the old silver scars there, where he’d damn near broken his hands on men’s teeth – the teeth had broken, so many of them, scattered across the wet pavement like Chicklets.
He took a breath and reached for the phone. “Thank you.” His voice sounded remarkably calm. Everyone had always said that, before every back-alley brawl, every for-show match he’d fought at club parties: you look so calm. Like you’re out for a stroll.
But he’d felt hectic as a shaken beer inside. Fizzing and frothing, ready to inflict violence. He felt like that now. A feeling he tucked up his sleeve like an ace. Let me get my hands on you, he thought, as he took the phone. You won’t be winking at anybody then, Luis.
Nickel ducked back out, and Candy put the receiver to his ear. “Good morning,” he drawled, laying his accent on extra thick.
“Good morning.” The accent on the other end of the line was light and elegant, faintly Spanish. “Am I speaking with Derek Snow?”
“In the flesh.” Every eye in the room was trained on him, his boys still and unbreathing as statues. Only Fox looked bored, but that was affectation born of long habit. His eyes were interested. Candy almost thumbed it over to speakerphone, so they could all hear, but in the next second was glad he hadn’t.
“Yes, it would seem I am. I thought you might try to get one of your Dogs to impersonate you, but it’s really you, I can tell.”
Tension streaked down Candy’s spine, like a guitar string being plucked. His voice stayed even. “How do you know my voice?”
A chuckle, low and smooth as velvet. “I have my ways.”
Whatever his face was doing, it caused Fox to shift forward at the end of the table. Very clearly, he mouthed, Don’t make the first move. It was like fighting: you had to let the other guy wear himself out before you delivered the killing blow.
“Mr. Snow,” Luis continued. “I want to apologize for not calling sooner. Though, in all fairness, I have been sending you messages.”
Bodies tied out to stakes, gaping wounds in their throats like second smiles. Look, Mama, like a star. Outside his nephew’s window. “Got a bit carried away with it, didn’t you?”
“No,” came the immediate reply. “Only until I was sure you’d gotten the messages, and knew who was sending them.”
“Or you could have just called first thing, and been direct about it.”
Another chuckle. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Candy didn’t respond.
A sigh. It sounded theatrical; like the bastard had practiced all his sighs in an attempt to find the one that sounded the most bored and disappointed. “Really, I should thank you. If your man hadn’t killed the former head of the Chupacabras, my father wouldn’t have had this chance. Well, he would have, but he would have needed to fight for it. This generalship just fell into his lap, so muchas gracias, señor.”
Fuck you, you son of a bitch, if I could reach through this phone…would you be smug if I put my fist through your teeth? He imagined it, the satisfaction if it, hone breaking, teeth chipping. Men like this, insulated by money, and power, and paid thugs were always so full of themselves so long as that barrier existed between you and them. But take the barriers away, and they all pissed themselves in the end. This one was just like all the rest – but Candy had to handle him, now.
He clenched his jaw and said nothing.
“Last night,” Luis continued, tone settling into something more businesslike.
“What happened last night?” Candy asked, all innocence.
“How’s your man?”
He was caught off guard, again. Traded a look with Fox that didn’t help at all. No sense playing coy, he guessed. “Alive.”
“Shame.” Luis tsked. “He certainly knew his way around a fistfight. He would have made for a nice trophy.”
For a moment, Candy wondered just how sick this guy was. Did he have people stuffed and poised around his living room like deer trophies? Probably he’d been watching too much weird TV with Michelle.
Another thought occurred – a useful one. “You weren’t trying to kill him, though.”
“Ah.” Luis sounded pleased. “Very good.”
“You’re like a cat, aren’t you? You like to play with your food.”
“Afraid of being eaten?” He chuckled. “And I suppose you’re a dog, just like the one running across the back of your cut. Brutal, loyal, hungry – less than subtle.”
What do you want? Candy took a steadying breath. “Something I’ve been thinking this morning.”
“Hm?”
“Your whole setup at Doc Gilliard’s was clumsy. If it only took four of my idiots” – Fox’s brows shot up – “to get inside the place and get their hands on your shit, you’re not exactly running a tight ship there, chief.”
“I’m not, am I?” Lightly, unbothered.
Candy felt the first prickling of sweat at the back of his neck. He wished this was Fox taking this call. Luis was a game-player, and Candy had never been that. Straightforward, uncomplicated, just, as Luis had said, like the dog he wore on his back.
“Listen.” Candy swiveled his chair a quarter-turn, so he wasn’t facing Fox anymore. “You’ve had your fun, and, I admit, you’re hard to pin down. But you aren’t going to get rid of the Dogs. That isn’t possible. If you know anything about us at all, then you know we’ve got chapters all over the country. You can’t push us out. You could kill every one of us here, and a new batch of guys would come take our places and give you more hell.”
Someone cleared a throat.
Fox smacked the table, once, a strike of his flat palm.
Candy stared at the closed door of the chapel and listened to Luis make a low, considering sound on the other end of the line.
“I want to meet. In person.”
“When and where?” Candy asked.
“Not today, I’m busy.” Pages rustled. “Tomorrow? Yes, tomorrow morning. First thing. For breakfast. There’s a restaurant called Gabriel’s–”
“I know it.”
“Good. Bring no more than five of your men.” The call disconnected.
Candy switched the line off from his end and set the phone down on the table beside him. He heard cigarettes being lit; the muted thump of a coffee cup setting down.
It was Fox who broke the silence; he’d known it would be. “Well. You’re an idiot.”
Candy snapped his chair around. Everyone but Fox was staring down at the table, or into their cups. Everyone but Blue, whose gaze moved between the two of them, like he was about to watch a tennis match.
Fox sat leaning sideways, one hand braced on the arm of his chair, expression still bored, eyes shooting sparks.
“I’m an idiot?” he asked, pleasantly, but Blue’s brows jumped once.
“You made the first move.”
“The conversation wasn’t going anywhere. He’s one of those assholes who likes to talk in circles and brag about himself.”
“You invited him to kill us.”
Candy arched a single brow. “And you wouldn’t have?”
Fox’s blank-faced refusal to answer was a small victory.
“If he’s going to pull something,” Candy said, “then he’s going to do it no matter what I say. And he needs the reminder: he can’t wipe out the whole club. Nobody can. He needs to consider the bigger picture. Let him think I’m a blowhard. We’ve got until tomorrow morning to nail down a plan of attack. Now, we can all sit around here second-guessing our president,” he said, dry, and earned a few squirms for it. “Or we can get to work.”
He heard the sound of bikes pulling into the front lot, and got to his feet. “That’ll be our reinforcements.”
~*~
Russell Ward had earned the club name Jackal when he was still just a prospect. Candy had always thought of him as a window into what Mercy could have turned out to be if he hadn’t had Ava to act as lodestone.
If there was a tragic backstory there, and Candy had his doubts, no one had managed to suss it out yet. No president would have made him an officer, and he wasn’t one, but he was the sort of man you were glad to have on your side in situations like these.
“Candyman!” he crowed, when Candy stepped out of the clubhouse, bare arms flung nearly as wide as his smile. He looked the same: shaggy, sun-bleached hair, polarized sunglasses, white-white teeth, golden tan. A Jimmy Buffett concert tee with the sleeves cut off was all he wore beneath his cut, the front of which was sewn with a half-dozen patches marking the brutal things he’d done for his club.
He looked delighted.
Candy smiled back, and stepped into the offered hug, a tight, back-slapping, unapologetically warm and glad affair. “Hey, Jack. Good trip?”
“Aw, yeah, man, easy. Smooth sailing once we got outta LA traffic.” He pushed back, hands gripping Candy’s biceps. “Shit, dude, did you get bigger?” He squeezed the muscles until Candy laughed and shook him off.
“Nah.”
“No, you definitely did. You been lifting.” He tipped his head and grinned, gaze mischievous over the rims of his shades. “Trying to impress your little woman? Or just trying to keep up? Ha! She’s a lot younger than you.”
“So they tell me.” Candy felt his own smile fading. “Thanks for coming.”
“Hey, no problem, man, I live for this shit. If something’s going down, I want in.”
“Who’d you bring?”
“Only the best.” He stepped back and made a grand, sweeping gesture toward his fellow Cali Dogs.
Candy was pleased to note Loco, and Victor, and Tee, along with four unfamiliar faces who were appropriately muscled and threatening-looking.
“What’ll it be, boss?” Jackal said. “Point me at whoever I gotta kill.” His smile bordered on gleeful.
Candy snorted. “Let’s go in and I’ll give you the rundown.”
Thirty-Nine
Reese had never liked the taste of coffee, but appreciated its uses as a stimulant. On long ops, he always took a large thermos full of it, sipping at it continuously, fighting it down one bitter swallow at a time – but only ever at a rate that maintained the balance between liquid intake and output. He never wanted to piss and leave his DNA behind at a scene.
He hadn’t realized the bitterness of coffee caused him to make a face, though, until one morning a few months ago in Mercy’s kitchen. Ava had chuckled, and he’d glanced up to see her smiling at him. “You want some cream for that? A little sugar?” When he’d only stared at her in wonderment, she’d taken the mug from his hands and doctored it until it was pale, and sweet, and flavorful. He’d experimented with flavors; French vanilla was his favorite.
He searched the hospital lounge’s array of non-dairy creamer capsules until he found a vanilla one, and added it to his paper cup of coffee. Added four sugar packets, and turned around to find Agent Maddox studying him.
“That’s a lot of sugar,” he said, frowning.
Reese took a sip, and didn’t make a face. “I like sugar.”
“Obviously.”
Reese had arrived at the hospital ten minutes ago and rendezvoused with Gringo in one of the quiet, family waiting rooms on the second floor, where Jinx and Melanie Menendez had rooms. Gringo’s eyes had gone a little wide, and Reese took it he wasn’t the expected backup. But, despite the jests and insults – teasing, he knew – about Gringo’s incompetence, he’d schooled his features and adapted quickly.
“Fox’s brother is up in ICU. And there’s a fed up there,” he’d informed him, voice low, brows jumping on the word fed.
Reese had spotted the agent immediately, in his suit, with his sunglasses on his head, chewing gum and sticking out like a neon sign with his stiffness and uneasiness. He was young, proving himself at the Bureau, still, most likely.
He’d spotted Reese, too, gaze arresting, posture straightening. His gaze had traveled down and then up Reese’s body, and his mouth had set in a straight line, and even if Reese wasn’t wearing his cut – he so rarely did; identifying clothing was never a good idea – but the agent had said, “You’re one of them. A Dog.”
Reese had walked past him into the waiting room to fix himself a cup of coffee, exhausted suddenly. Faintly dizzy with fatigue.
He studied the man now between sips, letting the counter behind him hold some of his weight.
Maddox put his hands on his hips and huffed a challenging sound. “Right? You’re a Lean Dog?”
“No,” Reese said, because his cut, back at the clubhouse, bore only a bottom rocker that read PROSPECT. He wasn’t a fully-patched member, and therefore, technically, not a Dog. “I’m a Dog ally.”
“Ugh, okay, yeah, whatever. You’re a Dog. You people can’t just be hanging around the hospital.” He glanced away and raked a hand through his hair. “It’s bad enough Cantrell’s fucking working with you,” he muttered. He stared toward the window a moment, seeming to gather himself, then turned back to Reese. “Here to visit your buddy who got shot?” The question was conversational, but his tone was not.
“He’s not my buddy.”
The face the man made in response eluded Reese.
“I’m here to guard him.”
“Guard…?” The agent snorted. “You shitheads are unbelievable. Guard? I’m here.” He jabbed a finger into his own chest. “But I guess that doesn’t count, ‘cause I’m just a fucking federal agent.” He paced toward the window, and his hand made another pass through his hair. “Unbelievable.”
Reese sipped more coffee – intensely sweet, and warm; he could already feel the caffeine hitting his veins – and studied Maddox more closely. Young, and proving himself, yes, but the emotions playing out across his face, even in profile, spoke of restraint and frustration. A simmering resentment that he held tightly in check – but a hold that was fraying.
With an inner lurch, Reese realized that the man reminded him of Tenny, all of Ten’s pent-up anger and helplessness turning him sour and grim-faced, and reckless.
Reese said, “I’m sorry.”
The agent froze, and then whipped toward him, brows drawn low. “What did you just say?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “You don’t want to be doing this.”
“I don’t…” Anger flared again: color in the cheeks, flash in the eyes, leap of the chords in the throat. “You’re damn right I don’t want to be babysitting fucking gangsters.”
“Club.”
“What?”
“It’s not a gang. It’s a club.”
“Are you–” Maddox took a sharp breath in through his nose. “Are you stupid or something? Or just fucking insane?”
Not an uncommon reaction. Though they’d taken to educating him how they saw fit, trying to pull him into their daily habits, rituals, and secret languages, the Lean Dogs, all save Mercy, had asked him similar things – though with less hostility. Less fear. He knew he wasn’t normal, but that had never bothered him. Save for when Tenny needled him.
“I’m a special operative,” he said.
“A special operative,” the agent repeated. He didn’t believe Reese, he knew.
“I’m highly trained.”
“Is that right?”
“If you have other work to do, you don’t have to stay. I’m here to watch Te–” He nearly said Tenny’s name, but caught himself. “My colleague.”
The agent blinked at him. “That is…okay, yeah, you’re definitely stupid.”
Reese finished his coffee and turned back for a refill. He’d spotted two French vanilla creamer pods earlier.
Behind him, Maddox started pacing again, soles of his shiny shoes clicking over the terrazzo. “If it were up to me, I’d pull the plug on this whole operation. Fuck it. Let all you kill each other and good riddance.”
“You could leave,” Reese suggested, stirring in the required four packets of sugar.
“Yeah, sure, I’ll just leave. Maybe I’ll hand in my gun and badge while I’m
at it.”
Reese turned back around. “You could.”
Maddox paused, and glanced up at him. The smile that crossed his face owed nothing to humor or good-will. “Jesus Christ,” he murmured, then turned around, throwing up both hands. “Be my guest. Guard, you freak.” He stomped out into the hallway and took up a post over near the elevators; fished his phone out of his pocket with an angry, jerky motion, and stared at its screen.
Reese went to get buzzed in, coffee in-hand.
The nurse that came to the door took one look at his face, and her own softened. “Oh, sweetie, are you here to see that handsome thing that got shot? Come right along with me.”
He followed, bemused. What sort of expression was he making that she’d just known? That she’d reacted with instant sweetness and sympathy. ICU’s family only, Fox had told him over the phone. Tell her you’re his brother. But he hadn’t even had to offer an excuse. Should he offer one now? Maybe he didn’t need to, he thought, as her sneakers squeaked along in front of him.
They reached a glass-fronted room with a pressurized sliding door, a chart secured in a plastic slot beside it. The nurse stopped, and turned, still smiling at him. She reached out and patted his wrist, light enough not to spill his coffee. “He’s awake, so you should be able to go right in. Buzz me if he needs anything, okay?”
“Okay.”
One more smile. “Poor kid. Y’all are so cute. You remind me of my nephew and his husband.”
Oh.
Her gaze flicked down to his left hand, and she whispered, “We’ll just say it’s official if anyone asks.” She gave him a wink and retreated down the hall.
Reese watched her go a moment. Oh. Then pressed the button that sent the door shushing open and went inside.
Tenny’s eyes were blue glittering slits, the only part of him that moved, latching onto Reese as he entered and following his progress up to the chair at the side of the bed, which Reese dropped into feeling a little unusually dazed.
“What?” Tenny croaked, his voice rough and strained, either from meds, or his injury, or the aftereffects of the tube they’d put down his throat back at the scene.
Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7) Page 34
