1
CIPHER
The Savage cells smell like cold concrete, old blood, and the faint metallic tang of fear that never quite leaves a room built for breaking men. It clings to the back of my throat as I walk down the narrow corridor. My boots echo off cement walls that are stained darker in places where someone bled. No matter the amount of cleanup, the stain stayed. The overhead lights flicker, casting a sickly yellow glow that makes everyone look half-dead.
Come to think about it, it’s fitting. We are three days out from Christmas and everyone looks like they’ve lived through a night of revisiting their ghosts from Christmases long gone.
I know I have. It’s why I’m here. I usually stick to my keyboard and let my brothers handle the bloody work of getting really shitty men to spill their darkest secrets. It’s safer that way. The last time I stepped out from behind my mask, people died. They deserved it, but I don’t like releasing my monster from its cage. It’s hard getting the fucker back in.
But tonight is different. This whole situation with Euphoria has us all on edge and it’s going to take all of us, our demons and monsters included, to get the designer drug off our streets.
And we are almost there. We just need Grudge, the Vultures’ president, to give up the goods on where to find Veles. That Russian fucker is slippery. He is the one with the money and connections here, not the Vultures’ president. If we can get Veles, the entire house of cards will fall.
I roll my shoulders as I move, the familiar pull of old scars tightening along my right cheek and down my jaw, reminders of choices that never stop collecting interest. At six-foot-four, most men make room for me without thinking about it. The ones who rarely learn fast. Tonight, the Vultures’ president doesn’t move when I stop in front of his chair. He sits there with his wrists cuffed, chin lifted in defiance, but the stiffness in his posture gives him away. One side of his face is mottled with yellowed bruises, his breath comes shallow like each pull of air costs him something. Tender ribs will do that to a man. His eyes dart around for some magical portal to bounce his ass outta here, but Christmas magic doesn’t extend to murdering assholes.
He’s still wearing the wife beater he came in with. It has a few more blood stains than yesterday and after tonight, it will have even more. The man isn’t smart enough to know he’s beat. His last few hours on this planet would be easier on him if he’d just talk.
Some people like the hard way.
I don’t rush as I drag a table from the corner and push it in front of him, the metal grating against the cement.
I lower myself into a folding chair and let the silence stretch out between us until it presses against his ears and he nervously shifts in his chair.
“Fuck, man—whatcha want? You gonna stare at me all night, or you got somethin’ to say? Get a fuckin’ life.”
Grudge leans forward and scrapes the craggy ends of his dirty nails over the bristle on his face. He’s been in our cells for days now. Maybe weeks. Fuck. I don’t know. I've lost count. But I haven’t lost count of how many people have lost their lives juicing themselves on the Euphoria he and his men are poisoning people with.
“Hey, gimme a smoke or somethin’ if you’re gonna just sit there and eye-fuck me all night. Or you plannin’ to talk?”
His Southern drawl stretches the ends of his words, vowels pulled long and lazy, like he’s trying to sound relaxed. But the way his voice catches tells me the nerves are starting to creep in.
I reach into my jacket and pull out the book that nearly cost my brother, Phantom and his girl, their lives to secure. The second grudge sees it, recognition hits him like a punch to the gut. I know because I recognize the shock blowing his tired eyes wide. The lines carved into the corners of his eyes cut deeper as his face tightens, too. For a split second, the room goes dead quiet. Then his pulse gives him away. The vein in his neck starts to jump, hard and fast, thudding against his skin like it’s trying to tell me he’s about to have a heart attack.
I hold up the thick, leather-bound book, a smile of pure evil on my face. To anyone else this thing looks harmless, but the information these pages hold are the kind of secrets men killto erase. And men like Grudge like to think it also makes them untouchable.
What a dumbass.
I toss it onto the metal table between us, the impact loud in the quiet room.
The sound makes him flinch.
“Looks like your VP gave up all the dirty secrets,” I say, my voice calm, almost bored. I rest my palms on the table and lean in just enough that he can see the green of my eyes under the harsh lights. “Names. Routes. Payoffs. Judges. Cops. Politicians. Even a few people I bet will swear they’re clean when we catch up with them.”
Beady black eyes meet mine. His jaw tightens. “You think that book means sump’n to me?”
I glance down at the cover, then back at him. “It means you’re sloppy.”
A laugh scrapes out of his throat, brittle and forced. “Burn it. I’ll have every name in there replaced by mornin’.”
Behind me, I hear the faint shift of movement. Phantom slips into the room, quiet as a shadow. A few other crew members join us, too. Phantom put it all on the line last night to get this book and I know he wants to end Grudge’s life right now and move on.
But not yet.
Reaper’s close enough that I can feel his presence without turning around. The Savage Reign crew do not crowd a room unless we want someone to understand exactly how alone they are.
“You could,” I say. “But you won’t because you’re not the one calling the shots here. Does Veles know about your VP’s black book?”
Judging by the way the blood drains from his face, I’m going with a solid no.
