“Text him to meet us at the gas station a mile north.”
In minutes, the five of us are flying down the highway in Cookson’s blacked out Escalade. I know I’m supposed to be staying clear of the warehouse, but John said the bust probably won’t happen for a couple of days yet, and I can’t sit around to see what Croc’s plans are for Starkey. Croc doesn’t do anything without a reason, which means he’s going to use him to manipulate me some other way. Over my dead body.
Taking Starkey out of prison was the worst move Croc could make. Because now I don’t give a fuck about playing nice. I know what’s coming down the pipeline for that bastard. My only objective is to get Starkey the hell out of there. I’ll be in and out long before John’s team makes their move. Then, if we need to, we’ll hole up in a hotel somewhere until the dust settles.
We arrive at the gas station, pull up next to the cherry red Mustang, and join our waiting crew members. Except I’m short a Pirate.
“Where the fuck is Smee?”
Alf Mason says, “He’s watching the office to make sure Croc doesn’t take Starkey somewhere else.”
“Good, that was smart. All right, listen up.” Confident the huge SUV is shielding us from any curious bystanders, I pull out my Desert Eagle that I grabbed before leaving from the small of my back. After checking the clip, I tuck it safely into my waistband again. “This ends now. I’m done letting Croc use one of our own against us for his personal gain. I’m going in there to get our brother back. I have no idea what that’ll mean for our future employment status”—it won’t matter because we’ll all be doing time soon, anyway—“so if any of you aren’t on board, now’s the time to speak up.”
Robert Mullins checks his gun. “With you, Captain.”
When everyone else follows suit, I nod, glad to have my crew backing me up. “We have no idea what Croc’s up to, so keep your heads on a swivel, but my guess is they took Starkey straight to his office, which is why they drove around to the back. We’ll go through the front like everything’s normal; if anyone asks, we didn’t pick up enough product and want to talk to the boss about some new ideas.
“The goal is to get out of there without setting off any kind of alarms because we don’t have the firepower to win against all those AKs. So as soon as we get into the office, we need immediate control of the situation. I don’t care if we hog-tie and gag the bastard or knock him unconscious, but we can’t give him the chance to call for backup.”
Noodler smiles. “I like it. How do we get Starkey out of there without raising red flags?”
“You’ll all leave through the front, nice and casual. I doubt anyone will notice I’m not with you, but if they do, just tell them I’m in a private meeting with Croc. Then I’ll take Starkey to the back exit. There’s usually only one guard posted outside; I’ll find a way to get rid of him. Drive around, pick us up, and we’re out of there before anyone’s the wiser. Questions?”
“Nah, Captain, we got it,” Cecco says, cracking his knuckles and shifting his weight, ready for action.
“Then let’s go.”
We pile into the truck with a couple of the guys having to sit in the back hatch area, but both vehicles will look more suspicious. Cookson turns into the shipyard and pauses to tell the mercs standing guard at the gate that the other guys didn’t get enough Dust on the first run. They wave us on and Cookson takes us through the graveyard of shipping containers until we finally come to a stop on the side of the warehouse. We spill out of the truck and I lead my men down and around the corner toward the double metal doors of the warehouse’s main entrance.
My ever-present sea of rage is boiling just beneath the surface, surging in waves that propel me forward in a rescue march for my brother. Part of me realizes that Croc is setting a trap by bringing him here, but thanks to poor timing on his end, my guys were able to give us a leg up on whatever it is.
The two guards wearing body armor and AK-47s slung around their shoulders nod at us as we enter. Ultimately, they don’t care what we’re doing here. We have the clearance to be here or we would’ve been stopped at the gate.
I keep my eyes forward as I stride through the cavernous front room of the warehouse, deliberately avoiding the illegal shit going on around me and trying damn hard not to think about the tragic shit going on above me. Almost over. Then John will make sure the girls are taken care of and we’ll pay for our part in these sins. Prison sucks, but we’ve all done time; it won’t kill us to do more, and it’s only right that we do. None of us are innocent men. None except Starkey.
Starkey. Hang in there, kid. I’m coming.
As usual, I use the fake charm on the guards at the door leading to the administrative wing, and they let us pass without issue. I don’t know where Smee’s vantage point is, but I don’t worry about it either. He’ll join the fray as soon as he sees us.
My boots eat up the distance of the long hallway, fueled by vengeance like a demon of reckoning with the hounds of hell at my back. I’m prepared to put Croc down by any means necessary and take my brother far away from here. But when I finally burst through the door, I’m not prepared for what I see.
With the desk shoved off to the side, two people are now the focal point of the otherwise empty room—neither of which are Starkey. Croc stands arrogantly next to Smee, who’s on his knees with a gun trained at his temple. Hands bound somehow behind him with his face swollen and bloody, he looks like a stiff wind could topple him over.
“Ah, you’re finally here. Just in time for the lightning round of my Q&A,” Croc announces like we showed up with wine and snacks for game night. He’ll lose his bravado real quick once he has eight guns aimed at his fucking face.
“You motherfucker.” I reach behind me, but I’m pulled up short when strong hands grab my arms and I’m relieved of my weapon. “What the fuck is going on?” A bolt of shock rips through me, then fury when I realize Cecco and Cookson are holding me back, and by the looks on their faces, it’s not for my own protection. Struggling futilely against their combined strength, I rail at them. “What the hell are you doing?”
The only answer I get is someone behind me binding my wrists tightly together in zip ties. My gut clenches at the all too familiar sadistic glint in Croc’s black beady eyes. His smirk grows, making me feel like a wriggling worm at the end of a rusty hook. The rest of the men fan out to flank my enemy, and it hits me like a two-by-four across the face.
My Pirates aren’t my crew anymore. If they ever really were.
I wait for the rage and indignation to consume me, but they don’t so much as throw off a spark. There was a time when a betrayal of this magnitude would’ve messed with my head. My entire identity has been hinged on being Captain of the Pirates. It was proof that I’d risen from the ashes of my shitty past and became something better. I’d gone from never having power to having all the power I wanted. Power meant everything to me.
But I don’t give a shit about any of that anymore. It was a means to an end. His end. Once this is over, I won’t need the power or the title. So fuck them. Fuck each and every one of them. At least I don’t have to feel guilty about giving them more time behind bars. They can all rot in prison as far as I’m concerned. I only care about my brother.
“What’s the plan here, Croc? I’m the one you get off on making suffer. Why fuck with Smee? And where the hell is Starkey?”
Croc laughs. “So many questions, James.”
A million spiders crawl over my skin when I hear my name spoken with that gravelly voice and see it shaped with those sneering thin lips. As easily as swinging a sledgehammer through a window, Croc blows the center out of my progress, leaving only the fragile jagged pieces desperately clinging to a steadily weakening frame.
“You’re getting into the Q&A spirit, though, that’s good. But I’m the one who asks the questions in this game. I asked Smee quite a few things, haven’t I, boy?” Croc directs a nudging kick to Smee’s ribs, which are probably already broken with the way h
e doubles over and gasps for breath. “I never bothered trying to turn this one against you. As for the rest… Well, you know what they say. There’s no honor among thieves, or in this case, killers. I enjoyed letting you think you were the leader of your little gang, but they’ve always answered to me. All except the two, anyway,” he says, disgusted, as he looks down at the Irishman.
Squaring his shoulders as best he can, Smee raises his head to meet my eyes with his swollen ones. “To…the end…Captain.”
My throat closes around a hard lump of shame and regret. This man has been by my side since we were young boys, yet I’ve never told him—never even hinted—how much his allegiance and friendship means to me. I give him a nod, hoping he hears it now. You’re my family. Not by blood, but by choice. Thank you for your loyalty, brother.
“What a waste.” Croc lazily points his gun at Smee—
“NO!”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Hook
The shot is deafening, like an invisible crack of lightning that rips through Smee’s body with a violent jerk. Time slows to a crawl as he lowers his head to stare at the dime-sized hole in his T-shirt over his abdomen. Crimson pools at the site, then spills over like thick paint, gaining in volume and pressure as though someone’s turned a faucet on a steady stream. He glances up at me and opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a slight wheeze before he slumps to the cement floor, eerily motionless.
Time zips back to normal speed as an anguished cry is torn from my chest. I lunge for my friend, but I’m held firm and forced to watch as Skylights and Alf Mason drag him to the corner as though he’s a bag of trash.
“Oh, Jesus. Smee…” My legs give out, but I’m held up by my arms and set back on my feet. “Where’s my brother, you sick fuck? Where’s Starkey?”
The bored expression on Croc’s face drives home just how big of a sociopath he really is. “He never left prison. But I did call the warden to let him know I wouldn’t be needing the kid anymore. I left the specifics up to him, but he’ll be joining Smee in that big pirate ship in the sky. If he’s not there already.”
Red rage bathes my vision. “I’ll fucking kill you!”
“No, you won’t,” he sneers, walking toward me. “You could’ve done it a hundred times over by now, but you haven’t. You pretend to be so tough, but you don’t have the stomach for killing. Face it, James, you’re gutless.” He stops just out of kicking range but close enough that the stench of his boozy sweat burns my nostrils. “That’s why I picked you, you know. Because you were easily manipulated. Broken. Damaged. Weak.”
Each flaw he lists blows a hole through the new narrative John wrote for me—one I started believing—that I have worth just as I am. That being broken doesn’t mean I’m not fixable. However, faced with my reality, it’s clear to see the rest for what it is: an elaborate fairytale like the ones John’s mom used to tell them as kids.
But before I can dismiss it completely, I remember pieces of the conversation I had with John after my visit with Starkey.
I am in awe of you…you are the bravest and most selfless man I have ever known. The first night I met you, I knew there was something special about you…You are exactly the man I thought you were. And that man is amazing.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear John is projecting his thoughts directly into my head. But whether it’s mental telepathy or an intuitive subconscious, it stops me from taking Croc’s bait and spiraling out of control.
Reality is, it doesn’t matter what I believe about myself right now, and it sure as fuck doesn’t matter what Croc thinks, now or then. I don’t care if it takes me years. If I survive this, I’m going to burn every shred of his existence in my mind until there’s nothing left. Not even a goddamn memory.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I visualize setting fire to Croc’s seeds of doubt, the same way I set fire to his precious school.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy!”
My head snaps to the right as an explosion in my face reverberates through my skull. My cheek throbs in time with my racing pulse, and I assume he opened a sizable gash below my left eye when a trail of sticky wetness tracks downward and into my beard.
Glaring at him through the longer hair hanging in my eyes, I growl, “Fuck. You.”
The corners of his thin lips pull back, and he replies with a creepy chuckle. “Maybe later, but right now we’re gonna have a little chat. If you tell me what I want to know, I’ll let you live.”
Live? I just watched my only friend die and my baby brother—who’s been my sole reason for living since our mom brought him home from the hospital—will be right behind him, if he’s not already. Sticking around now seems pretty fucking pointless.
“Tell me who JD really is.”
Johnathan.
One second Croc takes away my reason for living, and in the next, he gives me another. Every smile, every kiss, every embrace, every I love you… They flash through my mind like a mental resuscitation, breathing life into my heart and sparking hope in the darkness. Losing Smee and Starkey has destroyed me. But if I have even the smallest chance at a life with John, then I’ll find a way to put myself back together, piece by fragmented piece.
I need to get through this, and I need to get the hell out of here.
I made him a promise.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man. As far as I know, JD’s exactly who he says he is.” Croc narrows his eyes like he’s trying to decide if he should punch me in the face or the gut next. “Look, I’m not the information expert here, you are. I assumed you had him checked out after I brought him in like you always do.”
“I did,” he says through gritted teeth. “He checked out.”
“Then what the fuck do you want from me? I don’t know dick about any of that shit.” My top lip curls up in a snarl, allowing my sarcasm to slip free before I can stop it. “I’m just an obedient dog, happily taking orders from his fucking mas—”
Croc’s gaze shifts to my right, and Cookson plows his fist so deep into my stomach I think he grazes my spine with his scarred knuckles. I double over with a grunting wheeze, but I’m jerked back to an upright position before I fully recover.
“I don’t believe you, James.”
Another glance, this time behind him at Noodler. The crazy fucker grins like Jack Nicholson in The Shining as he steps in front of me and slips brass knuckles onto all eight fingers—four real and four fake—of his right hand. I have less than two seconds to brace myself. He cocks his arm back, swings, and connects with my jaw.
“FUCK!” Like a nail bomb detonating, the excruciating pain shoots in all directions, tearing through bone and flesh alike. My mouth fills with the coppery tang of blood from my teeth shifting in my gums. Before my ears stop ringing, he drives another punch into my side hard enough to crack a few ribs. All the air is forced out of my lungs with a whoosh, spraying my DNA onto Noodler’s face like a preschooler’s splatter paint project.
Not even fazed, he winds up for a third blow, but Croc calls him off at the last second. Stepping back into line, Noodler makes a big show of licking my blood from around his mouth. Jesus, how did I never notice just how unhinged that man is? I try to take a deep breath but stop short at the piercing stab in my side. Mother fuck, that hurts. Okay, shallow breaths. Shallow breaths are good, too.
“Let me tell you why we’re all here, James. You see, Cecco’s been suspicious of JD for a while now,” Croc says, bringing my attention back to him. “The other day, he stopped by your loft and noticed the tattoo on JD’s neck flaking off like one of those fake ones for kids.”
Goddamn it, I told him this would happen. If I make it out of here, I’m belting his ass for such a stupid move; one stripe for every tat and two stripes for every time he had to replace them.
“Now, I know not all gang members have tattoos, but they sure as fuck don’t wear fake ones,” Croc stresses, his frustration mounting. “Then he calls yesterday and says he
’s running down to Atlanta to check on the deal. Except I have it on good authority that JD never showed up, even though Tannen told me he did. Why do you suppose Tannen lied, James?”
“I don’t really give a shit,” I say lazily, my energy crashing.
“I think you do. I also think you know a lot more than you’re letting on. So, for the last fucking time…” Croc grabs me by the throat with one meaty hand and squeezes. “Who. Is. He.”
Shit. Breathing… Breathing had been nice. Even the recently painful, shallow kind. Turns out you’re never fully grateful for an involuntary function until it’s taken away. I need to think fast before I pass out and Croc decides I’m expendable while unconscious. Trying to suck oxygen through an airway the width of a cocktail straw, I come up with two ways to play this.
One: I can pretend to bargain information for my life then admit I was forced to cooperate with the FBI. I can hope like hell that Croc buys into the shit Hollywood sells and make up a story about the FBI and DEA working against each other, so John was pulled in for a couple of days to debrief the people in charge. Then I have to hope that John gets here in the next day or so before Croc manages to move his entire operation.
Two: Try to convince him that I’m just as clueless about “JD” as he is, then bargain for my life by promising to track him down and deliver him to Croc on the condition that afterward I’m free to move to the other side of the country, never to be seen or heard from again.
They’re both solid plans. They might even work if it was any of the other Pirates in my place. The problem is, there’s too much history between me and Fred Croc, too many secrets with too much intimate knowledge of how the other works.
He knows I won’t really try to help him.
And I know he won’t really let me live.
Which means bargaining on either of our parts would be nothing but empty promises.
Hook (Neverland Novels Book 2) Page 26
