Page 66 of Saxon

"I don't want that anymore, you idiot." She turns away, suddenly calm and icy again. She opens the door and peeks her head out. "Send someone for Anthony and get him help. See that he recovers fully. And send me…Alex. He'll have to fill in until Anthony is better."

She goes back to the desk. Sits. Sips whiskey, and places the gun back in the drawer. "There is something I want from you, though.”

"Name it. If I can give it to you or do it, as long as it doesn't cause harm or fear to Terra, or involve my brothers or the Club, I'll do it.” I pause. “I won’t kill anyone, either.”

"Jarrod Timothy Carmichael." She eyes me. "He works for the Cabal. He was your replacement, initially, but he rose quickly through the ranks partially by virtue of being extraordinarily ruthless even by Cabal standards, but also because off who his father is."

"I've heard the name," I say, noncommittal.

"He's been tasked with bringing you in for some unique Cabal justice." The lizard smile again. "I'm sure you're aware of the five-million-dollar bounty? Well, that's not a Cabal bounty, that's a Jarrod bounty. He has a personal vendetta against you, apparently."

I shrug. "Never met the man, to my knowledge."

"That's all I know about his involvement with you." She taps a single fingernail on the desk.

"And how does Jarrod factor in for you?" I ask, even though I have a suspicion as to the answer.

"He's the only one I haven't exacted my punishment on," she answers, verifying my suspicion. "He was the meanest and most violent of them all. A real sadistic fuck. Many of my girls are poached from Cabal operations. They come to me gladly and willingly, just to get away from him, in particular. The stories I've heard of him from the girls would give you nightmares."

"I don't doubt it. What's your proposition?"

"I know where he is, but I can't get to him. I'm not in a place where I can afford to start a war with the Cabal. But I need him to pay. And you need him off your scent. Eliminate him, and the operations against you will dry up. No one wants to go after you—the legend of Saxon Cabot still rings powerfully in Cabal circles, apparently. But they're more afraid of Jarrod than you, which should say something. If he's out of the way, the Cabal may very well just give up, as long as you keep your head down."

"Then the Cabal has changed from my time," I say. "They'd never let anyone get away with what I did to them."

She smiles, a real one, this time. Pleased, and proud. "They have bigger fish to fry. Namely, me. I'm days away from closing a deal with the Morenos. An alliance, of sorts. We split up the East Coast and cut the Cabal out entirely."

"A dangerous move. They can bring in resources from elsewhere. Their presence here is only a part of their total operation."

"I'm working on deals with the Russians and the Japanese, as well as several South American cartels. I'm not trying to take over, see. I just want to fuck the Cabal. I want to fuck them right up the ass, one revenue stream at a time. I'm taking their women. I’m taking their arms deals. I'm taking their drugs. With your help, I'll take Jarrod, their precious little criminal prodigy. Help me fuck them, Saxon. That's what I want. Help me fuck the Cabal in the ass. With the biggest, spikiest dick possible." She opens the same drawer the gun is in and withdraws something that makes my asshole pucker in fear.

A 12-inch black dildo…that has had nails embedded in it all up and down its thick prodigious length.

"I made this especially for Jarrod. I'm saving it for him. Deliver him to me, alive."

"Or?" I ask.

She frowns. "Or? Or nothing. It behooves you to do so. He wants you dead. Give him to me, and your problems are solved. You don't even have to risk breaking your vow—I'll do the wet work. I'm not threatening you, I'm asking for your help."

"This isn't a 'do what I'm asking or you die’ situation?"

She shrugs. "Would you like it to be? I can arrange that, if you like. Your little girlfriend can stay here, safe and sound, while you work your Viking magic."

I growl. "I hate that nickname. It’s fucking stupid."

"The Bloody Viking? I think it has a certain ring to it."

Terra snickers. "They call you that? That's badass."

"It's stupid. I'm not even Scandinavian."

"I didn't come up with it," she says, shrugging.

"No, I know. It's just one of those stupid things. I got caught in a bad situation. A hit went wrong, and I ran out of ammo and was outnumbered. So, I hacked my way out with a fire ax." I touch my scar. "It's how I got this. Knife versus axe—I won, but barely. I was shirtless, barefoot, covered in blood, and wielding an axe.” I shrug. “Thus, the Bloody Viking."

"How'd you lose your shoes?" Terra asks.

"The hit was at a beachfront resort in Mexico. I was posing as a tourist."