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We’re in a long hall with three doors to other rooms, not including mine, and one set of stairs going down—not easy on my hands and knees, but I go down feet and knees first rather than head-first because I’m not about killing myself here. Once downstairs, I note where the front door is and follow him through a kitchen, then into what looks to be an unused garage with a concrete floor and cinder block walls. It’s cold, my hands and knees on the ground soaking it all up and making me shiver. I breathe deep to try and control it, but as with everything in my life, it’s not easy.
Two other men are in here, both wearing expensive looking suits and scowls on their faces.
“It’s about time, Grouse. What took you so long?” The one that speaks first has a dark, thin mustache and a poor attempt at a goatee beard. He eyes me with disdain before bringing his attention back to Master.
I’ve seen him at events in the past, but he usually has his own slave with him and leaves me alone.
“I was making use of my slave while I still have her.” The low chuckle from Master is more disturbing than his words.
“Well, you have no need to worry about those consequences anymore because that assassin got Mr. Vale about six months ago. Apparently, word hadn’t trickled down to our level yet, but it makes things easier.” Mustache guy speaks again, a huge, silent man standing sentinel right beside him.
Over the years, I’ve seen enough of these men to know their place in our world.
“Interesting. You know my wife favors her, though, so we should keep her around for a little longer, until I can procure a replacement.” Master chuckles, low and slow, dragging his eyes up and down my curled up body. “I assume you had something in mind seeing as we’re here and not fucking her somewhere more comfortable… for us.” They all laugh at his non-joke, even the silent guy, and it sends shivers up my spine.
“Yeah, your wife is fucked in the head, but I figured we’d drag this shit out. She was gone for what? A week?” Mustache guy begins flipping the lid of a Zippo lighter open, closed, open, closed…
“Give or take a few days. My wife has the exact information. She counted the days without her living doll and it was a fucking nightmare.” Master shakes his head in frustration.
“You need to get your fucking wife on the same page, Grouse. She’ll have no choice but to pick a new one as soon as this fucking lockdown on sales lifts. That assassin has been causing problems.” One more flip of the Zippo lid, then Mustache guy huffs, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts, and lets the flame burn. “Anyway, it’s time we teach this little cunt a lesson.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bear
“Why the fuck would we need dogs?” Grinder asks what we’re all itching to understand.
“Fuck if I know.” Psycho just shrugs as he looks out the window of the truck, the scenery flying by in a foreboding haze as we make the less-than-two-hour trek from the Lubbock airport to Amarillo. Apparently, it was less conspicuous to land in different airports than to meet up at the same one. This world is not for me. I crave less drama and more tranquility. “Marco likes playing the mysterious mafia guy, calling to drop a bomb before hanging up without a goodbye. All I know is that we’re meeting some people and the only names I got were Ophelia and Jarrett.”
Sitting in the front passenger seat, I place my palms on the dashboard in front of me and breathe out to avoid punching something just to feel the satisfying crunch beneath my knuckles. I can’t take that risk though, not unless I want to waste time with a broken truck and wounded hands.
Since the complete bust in Montana, we had Marco’s jet—his brother-in-law’s to be exact—take us to a remote house in the East Hamptons. Ophelia and Jarrett had given us instructions to check that residence out while they followed another lead in Arizona. Divide and conquer, I suppose. Just like the Montana house, we raided, killed, and came up empty.
I burned that motherfucking mansion to the ground too. I hope these assholes know I’m coming for them because I will not rest until they’re all fucking dead.
The thought that my actions could have some serious repercussions on Athena did cross my mind, but I dismissed it as soon as it was clear that she was too valuable to them. They fucking chipped her, and used considerable human resources to come get her, they even lost one of their men doing it, too. Nah, they’re not gonna kill her but they might hurt her for it. And if they do, they’ll pay the ultimate price.
Who am I kidding? They’re not surviving this. But she will, I know it in my gut.
“Sarge, you know anything about these two?” I don’t need to repeat the names, everyone knows who I’m talking about.
“Nah, never heard of them. Hell, The Firm was just a rumor floatin’ around until the other night so I’m just as confused as y’all.” I like Sarge but I hate his answer.
“Bear?” I look over my shoulder at Psycho. “Marco’s never fucked us over, man. It’s all good. If he says we go to Amarillo, then we fucking go to Amarillo. Besides, it’s the only lead we got.”
It takes every ounce of self-control not to growl at my best friend, and it’s still not enough. The menacing sound that escapes my throat only makes him and Grinder snort. To be fair, without Marco and his intel, we would be twiddling our fucking thumbs waiting for an opportunity or a clue. At least we’re doing something, which is always better than nothing.
“Oh no, Papa Bear is about to rip your pretty boy face right off.”
We’re all exhausted but it doesn’t stop them from chuckling at my expense. Fuck this. These are my brothers and taking out my frustrations out on them won’t help for shit.
Between the Montana bonfire and now, we’ve spent almost two days traveling. It takes us a little over six hours to reach our meeting point, only stopping to unload the plane and load the trucks our Texas chapters left for us in Lubbock. Any other time, this rhythm would kill the strongest of us, but it’s fine, we’re surviving on pure adrenaline and airplane coffee, which is a hella better than when flying economy, that’s for damn sure.
Our destination is a tiny airfield just outside Amarillo where a private jet sits, the front door open and stairs latched on.
“Holy shit, that’s a lot of fucking people.” Grinder whistles, impressed by our cavalry.
“Like I said,” Psycho chimes in. “Marco has never fucked us over.” I grunt at his words because he’s right, Mancini has come through for us in the past and this is no different. There must be at least two dozen people out there.