“I’m happy,” Magnum says, kissing the top of my head. “I know it’s a big change for you, Damara. But I’m happy.”
He might be happy, but I’m still scared.
Chapter Sixteen
Zebulon “Zeb” Blackwood
Several Months Ago…
My phone buzzes while I'm kneeling at the foot of my bed, praying to God for forgiveness. I'm naked when I pray, except for a pair of white underwear and a thick layer of sweat. Zebulon can't come to the phone right now.
And Dear Lord, I apologize for the way I enjoyed removing his small intestine. I apologize for the rush I felt when I watched the life fade from his eyes. I promise to act only in your service, to protect the innocent, and to behave in accordance with your rules on Earth. Killing must feel this pleasurable to me for a reason, for you made all things in your image... even me...
Amen.
My phone buzzes again. Fuck this. I get up, stepping over the pool of sweat to check the messages on my phone. Ethan Shaw.My boss for the moment. He's a lot smarter than Gideon or Ruger.
Doesn't take much to be smarter than Ruger. I have no idea how he made it through Ranger school.
I got through because I was always willing to do things nobody else was. I'm tough, corn-fed, and capable of breaking a human neck between two fingers.
Ethan follows his text up with an address.
Guess that's where I'm going. I towel sweat off the back of my neck and face. Blood pumps fast through all my extremities. I feel... better.
Praying is the only way I can keep the dark voices away. They get so loud sometimes, it's all I can hear. But when I give my problems up to God, the voices disappear.
Ruger gave me his old Indian Scout when I turned eighteen and pledged my loyalty to the Rebel Barbarians Motorcycle Club. I knew since I was a kid I wanted to join up. The Rebel Barbarians are made of good, traditional stuff, but their problems with race always bothered me.
I'm younger than Ethan by about fifteen years and frankly, the obsession with skin color shown by older folks is... weird.
Never been with a woman who wasn't pale as I was, but I don't see a problem with it. All pussy tastes the same in the dark, I imagine.
The Indian Scout is a piece of shit, but I don't like spending my military compensation on my hobbies when I’ve got living expenses. I got out on disability when a Yemeni kid shot at me and shrapnel obliterated my right eye. Most people can't tell Ihave a glass one in, but it always bothers me when people look too close at the eye, or the scar.
One eye makes it harder to shoot, but it's still possible. Not good enough for the army, but it's good enough for Ethan Shaw.
If I ride recklessly, I'll get to Ludlow Street – the one with all the fancy condos on Google Maps – in twenty minutes. Let's hope one of the other boys gets there first. I only have a couple guns loaded up in the Indian Scout. I sawed off my shotgun, so it's easier to fit in my cut. But it's a fucking mess to bang a bullet out and the shit jams up all the time because Ruger was high off his ass on meth when he assembled it for me.
The ride starts off smooth, easy enough to push fifty, even fifty-five on the side streets and I don't run into any cops. For the first ten minutes, my ride is so smooth, I get suspicious. You don't get much good in life before the bad comes and whacks you on the ass.
Just as I turn onto the street Ethan sent me, I recognize the problem. A blocked off street. Without thinking, I stop the bike, pull my shotgun out of my cut and fire at the "look out" before he realizes what's happening. Element of surprise always works on an unprepared enemy. Sun Tzu shit.
I don't get him in the head, but I get him, because the Chrysler roars to life and the window rolls up as the front wheels turn. I don't have time to sit here and fight. I hear more bikes, which means Ethan's back up must have materialized and I won't be alone firing bullets for long.
With one eye and adrenaline coursing through me, it's harder to aim. I steady my hand and let instinct take over. My body feels the depth of the Chrysler's tires and with one hand, I shoot. The kickback nearly dislocates my fucking shoulder. Pain sears through me, but it was all worth it to disable the vehicle.
The guy in the front seat leaps out of the car and I can't tell if he's firing at me or not because I can't hear shit. I race forthe condo door and pull it open. I almost shoot the man in the hallway, before the flash of red hair functions like a stop sign.
Reed?
“Don’t shoot, asshole! Magnum’s on the way.”
Reed Hollingsworth is one of those men that just looks mean. He has narrow, amber eyes and freckles all over his face that match his thick head of red hair. He was always taller than average, so he didn't get teased too much because of his hair.
If he hadn't torn his ACL while playing for McGraw, he would have been drafted by the Cardinals as a wide receiver. His athleticism puts him at a distinct advantage when Southpaw sends us off to work a job together. He's a lot easier to get along with than Gideon or that crazy motherfucker, Ruger.
"I won't shoot. How far is Condom?"
