Page 66 of Hurt

It was the perfect kind of weather for the meeting. A looming sense of ominous danger as the clocks ticked down to the appointed hour. All non-essential employees had been told to stay home, and the bar had been stripped of anything that could be used as a weapon. That wouldn’t stop the violent men about to congregate, but it might save a life or two.

The rules for a meeting like this were simple—no weapons and no fighting as long as the meeting was held on neutral territory. Once each band left the safety of the neutral zone, all bets were off.

Tables and chairs had been pushed back, save for one large one with four chairs set around it—two on each side. It had been years since such a meeting took place, and those in the bar couldn’t help but feel a menacing sense of danger. This would be a momentous day. Most people didn’t see the summits and meets that preceded a war. Perhaps most people would assume wars were started at the drop of a hat, the moment a grievance had been suffered. But it was far more tedious.

Elijah crossed his arms and tried to calm his beating heart. War was inevitable. It didn’t matter what was said here today. The Weavers and Vegas had been swiping at each other for years. The Weavers had been willing to forgive as long as things didn’t escalate, but escalate they had. It was almost as if the Vega Cabal had been quietly amassing strength to launch a full-out assault. Which is worrying in and of itself, but the fact that the Weavers hadn’t noticed was worse.

Why now? What changed?

He doubted the Vega Cabal would be willing to divulge what finally spurred them to pull the trigger, but he was anxious to see them face to face. He would have to be on guard. Any movement toward Roland or Grant would have to be treated as a threat.

Prohibiting weapons wouldn’t make them safe if the men themselves were the weapon.

With a bang, the front door slammed in. Out of the gloom, Jackson Morse ducked through the doorway.

Swiping the hood off his head, he rose to his full height and scanned the room with a bored expression. Taller than even the Weaver brothers, he was broad-shouldered and hawk-faced with a perpetually gloomy expression. Dressed all in black, his combat boots rattled the floor as the mercenary stepped forward toward Elijah.

Thin lips pressed together, he nodded to the shorter man and stuffed his gloved hands in his jacket.

“Elijah.”

It was the most greeting Elijah was going to get. “Nice to see you again. How was Bolivia?”

Jackson shrugged. “Humid.”

Loose tendrils of hair escaped his messy ponytail and tickled his tanned skin. Several scars crisscrossed his face, and Elijah knew underneath his skintight T-shirt was a sleeve of tattoos on his right arm—the biggest being an inking of a detailed saber down his forearm. Were it not for the intensity in his stare, he could be handsome. With his broad shoulders and thin waist, he had a body most men would kill for. Unfortunately, his personality was borderline the worst he had ever encountered.

As far as Elijah knew, the only person he showed any modicum of affection for was his younger brother, Evan. If Jackson knew his brother was an erotic dancer, he never showed any indication.

Elijah sure as hell wasn’t going to bring it up with him.

Technically, Jackson was a mercenary who worked for the highest bidder. But he had a loyalty to Grant. No one was quite sure the origin of their strange relationship—Jamie thinks they had sex at some point, but Elijah wasn’t so sure. There was a fierce allegiance between them. Jackson had taken a bullet for Grant once, and he was constantly out of the country doing work that even Elijah and Jamie were not allowed to know about.

His presence was proof of just how important this meeting was.

“Woah. Who invited Rambo?”

Elijah turned to see Noah holding several glasses. He was staring at Jackson with wide eyes.

Jackson raised a slender eyebrow at the teen but didn’t say anything.

“Noah,” Elijah said, abandoning his post at the counter and coming around to help him with the glasses. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” Noah said as if it was obvious. “I would say I also live here, but I’m pretty sure the legal term is squatting.”

Elijah set the glasses down on the bar and took Noah’s hand. He dragged him to the other end of the bar, where it was quiet.

“You need to go back up to your apartment and stay there.”

“Why?”

Elijah sighed. He couldn’t get into this right now.

“Because the most dangerous men in the country are going to gather in this room, andthey hate each other.” He leaned into the words.

“Am I supposed to be afraid?”

“Yes,” Elijah said, exasperated. “I need to be on my toes, and if I’m worried about you, I won’t be able to focus on my job.”