“See this?” I rasp. “Three against one. Somehow I’m the only one who walked away needing stitches. You think I’d pick those odds?”
Fisher’s gaze drops to the bandage, then back up to my face. His expression doesn’t change but if he thought I was lying, I’d see it.
“What made it?” he asks finally.
“A gun.”
A low whistle. Someone spits. A few curses under breath.
“Fucking scumbags…” Fisher mutters, setting the ledger aside and dragging a hand across his face. “Why didn’t you come straight to us?”
There it is. The question that hits dead-center.
And the truth burns immediately up my throat:
Because I was bleeding out, barely standing, and there was somebody warm for once.
I’d choose Rhea ten times over this crew.
But I can’t say that.
“Came as fast as I could,” I lie, and the slide back into performance is instinctive. “You know me. If I could bleed out on your precious dock for dramatic effect, I’d do it. Nothing like having a couple of guys hold me down while I decorate your boots with my insides.”
Baker snorts. A few of the boys crack smiles. Fisher’s hand pauses, then he huffs a laugh too. Tension evaporates just enough.
“You’re lucky you’re still breathing,” he says.
“I make my own luck.”
“Maybe,” Fisher says, eyes cutting to mine, “But there will be no next time. We’re gonna retaliate. No Rey’s scum will hurt my boys, you hear me? This could have been any of us.”
Well, sure. In theory it could’ve been any of us. If we spent our days standing at the border doing nothing but waiting to get picked off. But most of us don’t. Most of us push the odds back when the enemy thinks they can roll through.
I didn’t.
I grin anyway. “Sure as hell, boss. This shit really hurt. Would like to give back the favor.”
“Damn right.” He jerks his chin at Baker. “Load up. We’re sending a message.”
My stomach knots. Just a small, disagreeable twist that doesn’t show on my face. Baker nods and walks over; he claps me on the back like we’re best mates even as my ribs scream in protest.
“Told ya it was urgent,” he smirks as he passes.
I swallow the ache and tuck it down under the show. If I let it take me, I won’t move fast enough. Three trucks roll off the dock; tires scream against the wet concrete. I ride shotgun, Baker at the wheel, a couple of kids packed in the back like someone’s idea of a war party.
Fisher keeps it simple, in his way. Rey’s boys have a drop near the east warehouses. It’s crates from who-knows-where, stacked one upon the other. We torch the lot and kill anyone who opens their mouths.
We park two streets away. Rain starts in earnest, slicing the night into hard, tinny sounds. The pavement goes slick, puddles blooming where the light hits. Any sane planner pulls out and waits for another day.
But Fisher’s not a planner.
He thinks that messages have to land hard and fast, he says, or they’re bullshit.
Baker kills the engine. We climb out.
I roll my shoulders, ignoring the sting in my stitches. Rhea’s face flashes.
She said:I don’t want men like you, plural. Just you.
