Page 27 of Casual Felonies (Wildlings #1)

RAMI

Here’s the thing: once I put my mind to something, I’m stubborn as fuck. Both Truett and my dads say I can’t stalk? Game on.

It’s a faded beige with a few dings, but it’s almost as fast as my car, and that’s saying something. Also, the benefit of living in the penthouse is that drone deliveries are dead simple. Brown contacts? Check. Vintage Carhartt gear? Double check.

“You should maybe wait to leave the condo before putting on your stalking gear,” Sy says, looking me up and down.

“What are you even doing here? This isn’t your place,” I joke as I scruff Cupcake’s ears.

Sy drops his chin, and… shit .

“That was a joke, Sy. This is your place. You do belong here.” I gesture down at myself. “I’m just trying really hard here. It didn’t occur to me that leaving here in my disguise doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“Always leave your disguise in the car, change halfway there, and take a route that doesn’t always make sense. And don’t forget to add in at least a few extra right and left turns.”

I take out my phone and leave a voice note for myself. Sy hides his amused grin behind his inked hand. Dick .

Just then, Oakley comes in from the back hallway, wearing nothing but a towel. Unless you count all the body hair.

“Mind if I steal some shampoo from your bathroom, Rahm?” he says, bending down to love on Cupcake. “I forgot to pick some up.”

“Sure, go after it.”

Oak turns to leave, then rocks back, his brow raised. “Why are your eyes brown?”

“I was just trying something out.”

“It’s weird how much different you look. Your eyes are always the first thing people notice about you.”

“Not my sparkling personality?”

“That too, cousin. Thanks for the shampoo,” he says, making his way back to his room.

Once he’s out of earshot, I turn back to Sy. “Thanks for the help. One of these days I’m going to be very, very good at this.”

“I know. Once you’ve got your mind set on something, you don’t stop,” he says, his eyes drifting back toward the hallway.

There’s some ancient drama between Sy’s birth father and Oakley’s dads, and I think sometimes he feels guilty about the weirdness his presence causes in the family.

I’m tempted to say something, but in the end, I decide to keep my mouth shut.

Even though Silas is right about changing later, I decide not to take out the contacts because they were way too hard to get in. I do, however, put on my normal clothing, then set out to follow Truett .

Fifty bucks says he’s going straight for Brantley’s house.

Pattern recognition for the win. I’m in Brantley’s neighborhood off Highway 2222—half-billion-dollar homes carved and cantilevered into the tree-covered limestone hills.

I’ll never understand spending this much money on a house that can only be accessed by steeply graded roads, hairpin turns, and a fucking prayer to the gods of regenerative brakes.

Brantley’s cul-de-sac is at the bottom of a deep dive off a winding road. The large, flat circle of pavement is surrounded by four impossible driveways that twist, then drop farther down the hillside.

I’m parked across from Truett’s Mustang—by the way, not a subtle car—and well-hidden by the shadows cast by dimly lit streetlamps and the junipers and oaks which encroach on every inch of ground not chiseled out by progress. I know he hasn’t clocked me yet because my phone would be going off.

See? I don’t suck that bad.

Now that I’m here, though, I’m not exactly sure what to do. I can only see the top of Brantley’s house from this angle.

Huh. Might as well fuck with the hot barber.

I grab my phone and a spare tracker, then walk across the cul-de-sac. After carefully placing the thin tracking disc on the undercarriage—no scratches this time—I put on my smuggest look, lean against his Mustang, and take a selfie.

“Rami?” Truett asks, breathing heavily. “What are you doing here?”

I startle and drop my phone. Shit.

Truett steps into the cul-de-sac, having climbed up a neighbor’s driveway as if he hiked through the thick tangle of trees to avoid the entrance to Brantley’s house. He doesn’t look happy .

Great, just after our special night at his place, I go and fuck it up with my little stalking routine.

Only… True looks like he’s just run a marathon after having seen a ghost. And he’s holding the gun from the shooting range, now fitted with a suppressor.

“Why are your eyes—never mind,” he says, cutting off his own question with an irritated gesture. “You need to get in your car and go. Now .”

Embarrassed and scared, I point at his weapon. “What are you?—”

I’m stopped mid-sentence as a man walks out of the shadows by my car. He’s wearing black tactical gear and holding a rifle in the low-ready position.

Why is everyone fucking hiking through the hills in the dark?

Truett raises his gun, pushing me behind him.

“Rami, it’s Dad. Tell Truett to lower his weapon.”

I’d know that drawl from anywhere, but I don’t understand why Dad’s here or why he’s armed to the teeth.

I push Truett’s gun down as Baba, wearing the same black gear, comes in behind Dad. They cross under the tastefully flickering streetlamps, and what I see in their shadowed expressions puts a cold pit in my stomach.

Yes, Truett told me they were part of a vigilante group, but they’re my dads . I’d imagined some kind of weekend-warrior situation. Hapless, but doing their best.

I don’t know these men.

But they know Truett.

“Valentine’s right, son,” Baba says, tilting his head. “What happened to your eyes?”

“Never mind that,” Dad says, scanning the trees. “You need to leave. Now .”

“But why?” I ask, anger rising. “And how the fuck did you know I’d be here?”

“We were following Valentine.” He turns to True and lifts his chin. “What’d you find, son?”

Truett stiffens, then directs his answer to me. “Remember what I said about the guys Brantley got himself involved with?”

“Yeah.”

“They got to him and his lawyer before I did. Took out his entire protection detail.” He points to Brantley’s driveway. “There’s a team down there staging his body right now, and we don’t want any part of that.”

Dad whistles under his breath. “Fuck.”

He whispers something into his collar, which seems like a bad sign.

“Got to him?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

“They killed him, son,” Baba explains softly.

I bring my hand to my mouth, tears spilling. Brant had become a lot of things I didn’t recognize, but once upon a time, he’d been my best friend.

I’m the only one showing any emotion, though, so I quickly wipe my tears, which dislodges the stupid contacts.

I rub them out of my eyes, flicking them to the ground even as my mind is flooded with questions.

So many questions. Before I can ask a single one, Truett and my fathers shift into a ready stance. Dad holds up a fist.

I don’t know shit from military signs, but I do know that means shut the fuck up.

I think of movie nights, Dad and Baba cracking up at every vigilante-slash-superhero movie I loved. Pointing out the inconsistencies.

A sound in the trees near Brantley’s driveway catches Dad’s attention, and the narrowing of his eyes sends goosepimples racing down my arm. His jaw sharpens as he identifies something in the dark.

“Get down,” he says, pushing me behind him. “Stay down.”

Suddenly, the shadows are torn apart by bright flashes and muted automatic weapons fire, and a low pulsing sound I don’t recognize. In less than a second, I’m on the ground, my arms protecting my head.

I make out boots crunching on gravel between shots.

The sound of bodies hitting the ground.

When things go silent, I open my eyes. There are piles of ash and dead bodies on the pavement and blood pouring from a wound on Baba’s temple. Dad lifts his gun and begins shooting into the shadows on either side of Brantley’s driveway.

Rather than the typical sound of shots being fired, there’s the low robotic pulse from before. Trees fall, or…disappear.

Truett empties his clip, then tosses his handgun and grabs a rifle from one of the dead guys. His eyes have gone flat.

I’m still on the ground, useless as a cup of tea, when one of the bigger men spilling out of the tree line tracks me. His smile will haunt my dreams for the rest of my life, however short that might be. But as he reaches me, his head…disappears.

Along with a fair amount of his shoulders.

His falling body reveals Dad, rifle in hand, grinning. True was right—that is not a good look. As he extends his hand to me, someone else comes up behind him. I scream out a warning, and he twists just as a man brings a massive knife down on his arm.

Dad’s rifle clatters to the ground and his arm hangs there, useless.

Not thinking, I reach for the weapon, aim for the center mass of the man who just fucking knifed my dad, and pull the trigger.

Unlike the guns I’ve handled all my life, this weapon has no kickback.

With a dim flash and that low robotic pulse, the man’s entire torso disappears.

He falls to the ground in two pieces, his mouth wide open in shock.

Honestly, same.

Dad is somehow still standing, but his arm is ruined. People haven’t stopped pouring in from the circle of trees, and they are shooting at us. I’m still holding the rifle, so I begin firing back. Everything I hit disappears .

Baba, still bleeding from the head, sidles up next to me. “Hold down the trigger and use a sweeping motion, son. Try to avoid hitting anyone’s home.”

I nod and do as my father says, sending out an arc of that dull pulsing light. People and weapons fall apart in front of me.

It’s over in seconds, no contest. Truett’s off to the side, throwing up, and I wonder why I don’t feel anything. I just did what came naturally.

Before I can sort that out in my head, two vans speed down the steep drive, screeching to a halt in the middle of the cul-de-sac.

Dad yells, “They’re not ours!”