Jackson addressed his daughter, “Baby girl, if I had a dollar for every time some fucking moron pissed his pants in front of me? Well, your college tuition would be paid for already. Twice.” He motioned for the knife in my hand. I passed it off, handle-first to Jackson.
Upon receiving it and inspecting the blade, Jackson shot Rose a look, then pointed it at the guy’s throat. “You did that?”
“It was an accident. I was just holding it, and he hit a pot hole.”
Like a snake, Jackson spun on the driver. “You had my daughter’s car hooked up and you hit a fucking pot hole!”
As if that were the crime here. I snickered.
The man held both hands in the air. With the bloody towel pulled away, I caught sight of a two-inch wound that oozed blood. That sluggish flow meant nothing too major was nicked, but it had been deep enough to warrant at least a pint or maybe more. Fin was right, Rose’s blade was bloodthirsty.
I almost had a mind to warn Jackson to be careful with it. Then again, a good blooding needed more than a pint to satiate a truly dangerous blade.
“Please don’t kill me. I’ve got a family…a daughter, l-like yours.”
Wrong thing to say. Ain’t no one had a daughter like Jackson’s.
My boss held the knife out, point-first, directly in front of that fucker’s chest. “Where does this daughter live?”
His chin wobbled as he spoke. “I-in p-p-Pittsburgh w-with her mother.”
Jackson nodded as if pleased by that answer.
“Skinner?” I sent a command with that one word toward the camera on the front door. Skinner had to be either in the war room, or remotely monitoring this shit. My phone buzzed a second or two later with an address. I showed it to Jackson who rattled it off to the driver.
He collapsed to the floor, begging us to not kill his daughter. He went as far as to touch Jackson’s boots.
That wouldn’t fly. I’d been on Jackson’s protection detail long enough that I didn’t think before I kicked him in the ribs and followed up with a stomp to the head. Blood flowed from the split in his scalp where I’d scraped my tread down hard. He curled up into a moaning ball of piss and blood. Between sobs, he pleaded for his life.
I almost took my gun out to end this bullshit. But that was too easy for him.
Instead, I checked Rose’s hands once more. Then her arms.
There were fresh bruises on them. “Who did this?”
Her eyes dipped to the piece of shit on the floor.
“Did he touch Zoe?” I whispered that, because Jackson didn’t need to hear this yet. It would drive this fiasco from fatherly anger right into first degree felony if she told me what I didn’t want to hear.
“Just once. That’s when I drew the blade.”
Zoe had moved closer to Rose during this whole conversation.
“If I could’ve gotten my gun out of the car, I’d’ve shot him.”
“In the school parking lot?” I had to drill home the risks and consequences of her hot-headedness. “And then what would your father say?”
“What would he say about what?” Jackson had given orders for the man to be tied up so the club could take pot shots at him until we decided what to do with him and the truck in our lot.
“All the cameras, witnesses, and evidence that connects that asshole to Zoe.” I was thinking fast. Knowing Jackson had to figure this out for himself, but needed to use his devious, psycho-killer noggin on this one.
If we killed him, that would take us down faster than KC could.
Jackson’s jaw was tight. He let out a careful sigh. “This happened right as school got out?” He asked Rose, not Zoe.
Rose nodded. “Dozens of witnesses.”
“And they just walked by, ignoring the shit out of things, didn’t they?”
