Page 65 of Beware of Dog (Lean Dogs Legacy #6)

“Dude, that sucks.” Brady’s voice filtered through the Bluetooth speakers of Sig’s Mercedes. “Not even for, like, an hour?”

Sig dragged off the last of his cigarette and flicked the butt through the cracked window out into the rain.

It had started with a few fat droplets two intersections ago, and now, as he approached the townhouse, it was coming down in whiteout sheets.

“Sawridge says no.” He ground his molars.

“He says if anybody sees me at a bar, or coming out of a club the week before the trial starts, it’ll look bad.

Like I’m not taking the case seriously or some shit. ”

“Aw, man.”

The townhouse loomed ahead on the left, the white glowing in the gloom amidst a row of red and brown brick.

There wasn’t a parking spot directly in front of it, goddamn it, but one several houses down.

He gunned for it, swooping the Benz in front of a minivan trundling the same way.

The van screeched to a halt, kicking up a spray of water.

Sig flipped the driver the bird through the windshield and killed the engine.

A crackle, and then Brady’s voice was tinny from the phone speaker.

“Yo, you still there? Sig?”

He tucked the phone between his cheek and shoulder and ducked out into the rain, hand shading his face from it. “Yeah. It’s raining like a motherfucker. I’ll call you back.”

“Okay, sure. Let me know if—”

Sig hung up, and tucked his phone into his jacket pocket so it didn’t get wet.

The way he was currently getting wet. The rain was even worse than it had sounded on the roof of the car.

He tugged up his hood, ducked his head, and jogged down the sidewalk toward the front stoop.

Puddles had gathered in the low spots, and his Italian boots and the bottom third of his pants legs swallowed up water.

Within three steps, his socks squished. His waistband dragged down thanks to the weight of his soaked hems.

Shitty weather to go with this shitty day, this shitty week, this shitty fucking year . God. Jamie Simpson hadn’t even been any good. She wasn’t even pretty.

He hated her, for what she was doing to him, for what this would do to his permanent record—his social one.

He had no doubt Sawridge would land him an acquittal, but this trial was going to be social murder.

His friends would stand by him, sure, the ones whose drinks and gym memberships he paid for.

The ones who had a use for him, like Brady, the asshole.

But the important people, the CEOs, the heads of old money clubs, the bankers, and the celebrities, and the women of the caliber he deserved, as opposed to the dumb sluts he was slumming it with at school…

those people would look at him and see a walking scandal, even if he hadn’t done anything wrong .

Jamie had wanted him, he knew she had. She’d just gotten spooked in the middle and couldn’t calm the fuck down.

Stupid bitch. He wouldn’t have even made a pass at her if he’d gotten his hands on Cassandra Green.

That bitch…Holy shit, he hated her. Jamie never would have gone to the cops if not at her urging. Would have definitely back off and dropped the charges if Cass and her sister—who the fuck knew she was related to Raven fucking Blake?—hadn’t paid her a visit.

He wasn’t going out with the boys tonight because of Sawridge’s caution; because of this ridiculous farce of a trial coming up in a few days.

Might be coming up in a few days.

Despite the drum of rain on his head, and the water leaching up the legs of his jeans, he smiled to himself. The Tres Diablos had sent his dad a text last night. It’s done . Without Cassandra to egg Jamie on, convincing her to shut her trap and drop the charges would be easy.

What a cheering thought.

Smile widening, he skipped up the front steps of the townhouse, fumbled his keys out with damp fingers, and let himself into the foyer.

It was dark. Shockingly dark, not even the sconces on either side of the hall tree were lit; those were never off.

At least not when Mom had been here. She’d been staying with her sister the past few weeks.

“My nerves,” she’d said, over and over, while she packed her matching Louis luggage, weepy eyes covered by dark glasses.

What a weakass.

In her absence, Dad had gone broody and quiet.

He wasn’t keeping up with the usual things: he’d stopped shaving, didn’t iron his shirts.

He ordered delivery for dinner, all the greasy, cheap shit Mom never let him eat.

It wasn’t a surprise he’d left the lights off; had probably had a few gin his eyes bugged wide, leaking tears, chest hitching with suppressed sobs.

“Shit. Oh, shit,” Sig breathed.

The man holding him laughed, and it was a sound straight from hell. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

~*~

Shep was feeling a little useless. He and most of the guys had loitered in the alley, slowly getting soaked by the rain, until an upstairs light flashed three times: the all-clear from Fox.

Inside, the downstairs had already been set up: furniture cleared, Mr. Blackmon already taped to a chair and weeping openly.

They hadn’t even had to interrogate the man: one grin from Mercy and he’d started spilling his guts. Between gusty sobs and snot dribbles, the story emerged: a confirmation of what they’d already guessed.

Because going to the Dogs for help with their problem wasn’t an option, they’d turned to Sig’s new favorite dealers: the Tres Diablos.

They were cheaper than hiring an independent hit man, something Blackmon had considered, apparently.

He paid them in cash, half up front, and the second half once the job was done.

“I didn’t want to kill the girl,” he choked out between crying jags, “but if she went away, then the case would fall apart, and Sig would be in the clear.”

Shep wasn’t aware of moving until Toly’s arm went across his chest. “No, no, not yet,” he said, in a rare soothing tone that Shep recognized, belatedly, as the voice he used on Natalia when she was crying.

Fox had possession of Blackmon’s phone, and waved it in front of the man’s face. “We’re going to call Ruiz. I’ll dial, you’ll do the talking. You’re going to demand that Ruiz comes here, now, with the money. Ruiz himself, with proof the hit’s done, or else you won’t pay.”

Blackmon’s voice shivered, and stuttered, clotted with tears and mucus when he said, “I don’t…what are you… please …”

“Christ.” Tenny’s nose wrinkled with disgust in the glow of the lanterns. “Listen to him. They’ll know straight off something’s wrong.”

Fox turned to his brother, brows lifted. “You want to do it? Correction: can you do it? Or should I?”

Tenny scoffed, insulted, snatched the phone from Fox, and hit Send. He put it on speaker so they could all hear.

When an accented voice said, “Hello?” Tenny launched into a perfect Upper West Side, prissy American accent. “Where’s Ramirez? Get him.”

A beat. “Who is this?”

“You know damn well it’s Blackmon. Get Ramirez, or I’m going straight to the police.”

When he came on the line, Ramirez was abrupt, and clearly angry, but finally agreed to come.

Then they’d waited for Sig, lights off, Blackmon’s mouth taped so all they could hear from him was the occasional muffled whimper.

“I got him,” Mercy said, and positioned himself by the door.

Shep had the sense the others were afraid he’d do something wrong, handling him like a fragile bomb set to detonate at any moment.

It made him itchy and restless, like his skin didn’t fit right.

Tenny had disabled the Blackmons’ cameras and set up their own. Reese was watching the feeds on his phone, perched on a kitchen barstool like a gargoyle. Shep kept peeking over his shoulder as he paced, waiting for some sign of movement in the alley.

There was a back den off the kitchen, one that let out onto a sunroom, and they’d left the TV and a lamp on back there, so the house didn’t look empty; no sense tipping the Diablos off before they got in the door.

Shep’s pacing led him there, and he glanced at the TV a moment.

The evening news was playing, more politics and global unrest. The world was worried about the world, about big problems; and his world consisted of these rooms, and the adrenaline surging uselessly in his veins, and the young woman laid up in a hospital bed back in Albany.