Our pensive president sits at the head of the table, and when we present Sundown, his mouth twists into a sneer. The gang’s vice president, Rotten, is sitting at Crow’s right. Opposite him is Voodoo, our Sergeant at Arms. His tattoo of a stuck voodoo doll on his forearm is on display, the seven pins representing the people he’s killed. Next to him is our secretary, Dirt, who is stroking his long, gray braided beard with his gaze locked on Sundown. Rebel, our treasurer, is on the right with Preacher, our civilian liaison. They look like they want to rip Sundown’s throat out with their bare hands.
Sundown’s smile dies on his face when Ferryman locks the door and he and Wraith block it with their substantial bodies. Yeah… There’s no way Sundown is getting through that brick wall of muscle and fury, even if he could, somehow, get pastme.
And that’s not happening.
Shifting his gaze from management to us enforcers, Sundown looks all sorts of nervous. The color drains from his face, and his eyes are wide as fuck when he realizes shit is about to go sideways. He takes a step back but doesn’t get far because Discord is directly behind him and shoves the prick forward.
“Nah, man, this is all you.” He nods to the management. “You earned this.”
“Gentlemen,” Crow starts. “We know why we’re here.”
I swear I hear Jester giggle at the wordgentlemen.
Roswell steps up and grabs Sundown’s right arm. Jester, his left. Stupid fucker tries to fight, but Discord wraps an arm around his neck from behind, locking him in a chokehold. He resists, shouting curses at them. He tries to swing his arms, but they’ve got too good a hold on him. He calls out to Crow, who’s watching him struggle with false apathy.
Anyone who knows Crow, who truly knows the man, can see the hatred burning behind his gray eyes.
I end Sundown’s bullshit with a bitch slap across his face. Stunned by the insult more than the pain of the hit, Sundown licks away the blood the blow opened on his bottom lip. “What the fuck, man?”
“Confess,” I growl.
He slams his brows together, his frantic gaze darting around the room. “Confess what?”
I snort out a nasty laugh. “Yeah, we’re not doing this.” Another slap whips his head to the right. Behind us, Jester snickers. Ferryman grunts out his approval at the indignant form of abuse.
“That has to sting,” Angel remarks from over in the corner. The man lives up to his name in appearance only, deceptively angelic, with a head of shaggy blonde hair and a youthful face. Like Discord, he’s the threat you don’t expect. “A bitch slap for a bitch. Nice.”
“Fess up, boy,” Rotten demands. “We know what you did. This’ll go a lot easier on you if you confess.”
Sundown stutters out a denial. I exhale on a frustrated sigh. Curl my fingers in a fist and un-fucking-load on this asshole. I aim for his solar plexus and throw my two hundred thirty pounds behind the punch. He’d fold if they weren’t holding him.
“Fuck it.” I grab him by the front of his blonde hair. “It was you who told that prick where to find us. You knew he was coming there to kill us.”
Behind me, Crow calls my name, but I ignore him. I stare deep into Sundown’s eyes and I see it. Guilt. Right there. In those terrified brown depths. He can’t hide it. Not from me. The dawning of shame and regret is so profound it bleeds down his face as a single tear.
“I’m sorry,” he mouths, and I release my hold on him.
“Let him go,” I growl out, and as soon as he’s set free, Sundown falls to his knees, head bowed and hands clasped between his thighs.
“He only wanted the girl.”
“What was that?” I cup my ear and bend toward Sundown. “The dead speaks?”
“He told me he only wanted the girl,” Sundown rasps.
If he thinks this information will appease me, he’s lethally mistaken. The rage I foolishly thought I had in check erupts. I lunge at Sundown, intent on snapping his fucking neck. In one fluid motion, Roswell and Jester each grab the arm nearest them, intercepting my attack.
“Get the fuck off me.” I yank away from them. Drag in a deep, calming breath. Square my shoulders. Then spit on the pile of shit on the floor. I face upper management. “Is that enough of a confession?”
Crow scrubs a hand over his face. He extends it to his head, rubbing his scalp. Then he drops his arm and looks at Rotten. “What say you?”
“Aye.” Rotten gives a solemn nod. “Works for me.”
“Voodoo?” Crow asks.
“Aye.” Voodoo sneers at Sundown, who hasn’t taken his eyes off the floor. “Man’s a traitor.” He breaks protocol by coming around to stand in solidarity with me since this man vouched for Sundown. He places a hand on my shoulder and hocks a mouthful of spit on Sundown. “This scumbag has to suffer a traitor’s death.”
“Aye,” Dirt is quick to add. “And make it messy, Havoc.”
