Page 32 of Jett

JETT

MY HANDS ARE STILLdrenched with Ryzhanov’s second’s blood as I dial the number on the burner phone. It rings twice before the Russian answers, “Let me guess. Jetthro King?”

“Bingo, arsehole. You have my wife.”

“And I hear you have my second.”

“We do,” I answer. “He’s lookin’ a little worse for wear. Needs his daddy to come get him.”

“Name the place.”

“There’s a quarry outside of Penrith. It’s closed while they fix it to prevent another death. Be there at four p.m.”

“Shall I bring what remains of my crew?”

I laugh but it lacks any real humour. “Don’t tell me we crippled your crew. We killed a bunch of immigrant workers who were likely illegal anyway. Your crew is fuckin’ fine, but they won’t be if you hurt my wife.”

“It seems only fair that I should, given that you’ve no doubt bled my second long enough for him to talk. How else would he give up this number?”

“Your second is fine.”

“So is your wife’s arse. An eye for an eye, right?”

“Touch a hair on her head, and I’ll fuckin’ gut you.”

“Goodbye, Mr King. We’ll see you and your crew at four.” He ends the call and I throw the burner against the wall. It shatters into a million pieces and Ryzhanov’s second laughs. Crazy pulls his gun on him and the guy freezes.

“Put it away, you fuckstick,” I snap.

“Sorry, Prez.” He sucks in a sharp breath, and then another as he angles his head back as if avoiding a sneeze. “A-a-choo!”

The gun goes off. The Russian slumps against his restraints and I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”

Crazy wipes his hand on his cut, smearing snot across the dirty leather. He glances at the gun in his other hand, and then at the very dead Russian. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, oh shit, motherfucker. We’re meeting Ryzhanov in two hours to exchange hostages and now we gottaWeekend at Bernie’sthat shit?” I grab his cut and shove him up against the wall. “You just fucked us royally.”

I glance at Tank, who shakes his head, wraps his arms around Crazy’s neck, and drags him backward.

“Get him the fuck outta here before I riddle him with bullets too,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Prez. I fucked up.”

“You’re always fuckin’ up. I oughta strip that goddamn patch from your cut.”

Crazy slaps at Tank’s arm around his neck and my VP squeezes tighter until the insane little fucker goes lax in his grip.