“They’re like roaches,” Malice growls.
Wraith leans forward, resting his arms across his thighs. “After the message we sent when we found the first one selling that shit here, the smart thing would have been to stay the hell out of Mayhem.”
“Some folks don’t learn.” Rotten folds his arms over his chest, his customary scowl in place. “But thanks to the one Discord tore apart, at least we know they’re coming from Brighton.”
“Fucking Brighton?”
For a second, I wonder if those two words came from me. They sure as shit bounce around inside my skull, so it makes sense they’d shoot from my mouth. But nope. Havoc mirrored my thoughts and spit them out. He and I exchange a long, hard look because that town obviously brings the same person to our minds.
“Onyx is an upscale designer drug. You won’t find someone cooking it in a homegrown, backwoods lab.” Crow’s words are measured and deceptively calm—and not doing a thing to hide the storm raging in his gray eyes. “There’s a reason the Berserkers stay away from it. The drug is more dangerous than meth to manufacture and too expensive for their buyers.”
“So yeah,” Voodoo adds. “Makes sense, it’d be coming from someplace like Brighton.”
Dirt strokes his long gray beard, his expression grim. “Are they cooking it or importing it?”
Crow’s frustration is a tangible force. “That’s the million-dollar question.”
Voodoo, who like Crow, is in his mid-thirties, rubs his furrowed brow before answering. “They certainly have the means to set up shop.”
“That’s my thought,” Dirt concurs. As a man who has seen more than his fair share of shit, he is someone we look to when we need wisdom. “They also have the clientele.”
Rotten’s snort echoes throughout the room. “You’d think they would be content to keep to their corner of the world without getting suicidal by bringing it here.”
Crow, pacing, scrubs a hand over his bald head. “I doubt they’re suicidal. I’m sure they believe their wealth makes them untouchable.” Crow stops and casts his chilling gaze at each of us. “It’s up to us to prove that assumption wrong.”
“Gladly.” Malice’s grin is pure evil.
“Still doesn’t explain why someone would continue to sell here,” Discord says. “They have to expect us to retaliate. Especially after what we did to the first dealer we found.”
“Greed is one hell of a motivator.” Wraith’s quiet statement ripples across the room like an icy wave.
And Wraith would know this firsthand. David Crane might have taken Wraith and tortured him out of jealously because Jamie was still in love with him, but the sick fuck built his empire on a foundation of greed.
“Listen up good.” Crow runs a hand along his chin and sweeps his gaze over each one of us. “You know where you need to be, so be there. This is our town. The Unholy pushed out the government. We beat back every gang who tried to take Mayhem. We will not allow anyone to invade our house and infect it with drugs. I want to put a face and name to this plague. I want him dead. Am I clear?”
“Crystal,” Havoc snarls.
There’s not a person in this room—hell, in the world—who hates drugs more than him.
Ever get the feeling you’re being watched? Well, Wraith’s gaze is burning a hole through me. “What?”
Wraith lifts a brow at me, and his look puts me on the defensive. “Hate to bring her up, but if Faith knows something—”
Up to this moment, I never truly wanted to hit my best friend to hurt him. Sure, we’ve punched the living snot out of each other, but it was always in good fun. There was never hatred behind the violence. Right now, I want to make him fucking bleed.
“Do yourself a favor, Wraith, and don’t finish that sentence,” I warn him.
Crow walks over to me and places a hand on my shoulder. “Easy, Jester. I’m sure Wraith isn’t suggesting she’s directly involved. But sheisfrom Brighton. She might know someone who knows someone.”
I shrug off Crow’s hand and jump to my feet. “Faith is from Mayhem.”
“I stand corrected.” Crow’s mouth lifts in a hint of a smile. “I’ll choose my words more carefully when it comes to Faith Decker.”
“You do that,” I growl, as my furious gaze travels the room, letting everyone know, without me saying another word, they better tread carefully when it comes to her. Am I making a silent spectacle? Sure. Do I give a shit? Not at all. Unlike my friends, I don’t hide my emotions, because you have one life, and I’m trying to live mine to the fullest. If it means my friends fuck with me (ruthlessly), okay fine. At least when I die, I’ll skid into my grave worse for wear, having actuallylivedevery day.
Wait… What’s everyone saying? The conversation shifted, and I’m not listening to a damn word they’re saying.
“I’ll go,” Malice offers, and I realize they’re talking about Faith.
