Page 107 of Hurt

Some men are born to be lions and some sheep. It was the way of the world—as indisputable as necessary. Whether it was from circumstances or genetics, there were those meant to lead and those meant to follow. Neither was better than the other, just a symbiotic relationship. Yin and Yang. Two sides of a coin. One could not exist without the other.

Owen had long known he was a sheep. There was no roar in his heart, a desperate need to lead the charge, or stand tall against injustice. No, Owen was content to fade into the background. His skills would be harnessed and put to good use by a different kind of person. He would be relegated to basements and dark rooms full of blinking computer monitors. Far from the action, the most stressful part of his life should be which brand of Hot Pocket he would have for a snack while he debates the sapphic nature of Xena: Warrior Princess on his favorite online forums.

How he ended up in the middle of a war between two gangs was a question he was still asking himself.

Owen was sitting in the small kitchen of a ranch-style home. The Formica table under him was swaying with each keystroke, and the laminate floors were peeling up in the corners. A sketchy florescent light blinked like it was hooked up to a DJ at a rave, and there were lines of carpenter ants swirling along the salmon pink countertops.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

Five sets of predatory eyes were watching him. The Weavers were scattered throughout the kitchen and waiting on him. He felt not unlike a mouse being dropped into a snake’s cage—his life hinged on the whim of a predator’s hunger.

Except these men weren’t snakes, and there was something far more sinister than hunger propelling their actions. The need for vengeance was thick in the air.

Jamie was sitting cross-legged on the counter, head cocked as he watched the screens flash on Owen’s laptop. He wasn’t quite as snake-like. More like a deranged weasel. All cute and cuddly until you realize it’s carnivorous, then suddenly it’s a flexible tornado of terrifying speed and sharp teeth.

The rest of the Weavers were sitting on kitchen chairs. They were staring just as intently. He was pretty sure Roland hadn’t actually blinked the entire time they had been in this kitchen.

After the massacre on the Weaver Estate, he had been bundled up in a vehicle with Wallace and brought to this safe house. Given agonizingly slow Wi-Fi, he was instructed to not only monitor the Weavers’ mainframe for any cyber attacks but also try to decipher just how much information the Vega Cabal pulled when they tried to reverse hack through to the Weavers’ systems.

“The good news is I don’t think they got any valuable information,” Owen announced finally, his voice cutting through the uncomfortable silence.

Wallace eyed him over the wobbly table. “Is there bad news?”

“Well,” Owen said as he carefully avoided eye contact with the terrifying old man. “That’s the good news and the bad news. They didn’t get anything in that attack, but that means we don’t know how they got the location of the Weaver Estate.”

Grant sighed and leaned back in his chair. Owen wasn’t used to seeing the Weavers in casual clothes. From the moment they found him in a shitty internet I three years ago, he had only ever seen them in suits and ties. Even the old man was wearing khakis. That was the equivalent of sweatpants for him.

Grant looked the most natural in casual wear in his gray sweater and dark wash jeans. Roland had tried, but the man just looked wrong in a pair of jeans and a polo.

“All right,” Grant exhaled and looked over at them all. “We know that the Vegas have changed their attacks. Somehow, they’ve increased their capital. That has to mean they have aligned themselves with another gang.”

“We know how they’re making more money.” Elijah stood and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Jamie and I went to some of the addresses we found on Congressman Thomas’ computer. We know the Vega Cabal were helping him ship illegal firearms to Mexico.” On the phone, he handed to Grant were pictures of the various factories and shipments the Weavers had intercepted.

“Is he behind their new attacks?” Roland asked without looking at the phone.

“Nah, no way,” Jamie said from his perch by the sink. “He’s currently persona non grata. An ‘anonymous source’ leaked this info to the FBI. Thomas’ accounts are frozen, and he’s on the run. Last time I checked, he was hiding out on a potato farm in Idaho.”

“Anonymous source?” Wallace asked with a raised brow.

“Jamie on a payphone using a terrible Australian accent,” Elijah supplied. “We sent them the photos and addresses, too. It’s only a matter of time before he’s arrested.”

The attack on the Weaver Estate started to make more sense now. The Weavers had cut off two of the Vega Cabals’ main sources of income—they were systematically destroying their drug dens, and now they had cut off the illegal firearm trade.

“The Vegas are getting desperate,” Grant said. Clearly, he was thinking along the same lines as Owen.

“Who is capable of not only funding the Vega Cabal but also giving them new plans of attack?” Elijah asked.

Wallace glanced at Grant. His goatee bristled.

“White Sand Mesa.”

Owen was surprised to see not only Grant’s head jerk up but Elijah’s too.

“Luther wouldn’t go against us. He’s been an ally for years.”

Roland’s chair creaked as he shifted his weight. “You always said he was a wonderful tactician.”

Grant looked unhappy with the way the conversation was going. “He doesn’t know the location of the Weaver Estate.”