“What the fuck, Bam?” He roars, hurtling right towards him, fists ready.
“Sup, dad?” Bam chuckles, dropping into defensive stance.
He swings at Bam, catches him on the chin with a right hook that snaps his head back. Bam’s grin only widens.
"Fuck yeah," Bam says, and tackles Ellis onto the bed.
They thrash. Sheets rip, mattress springs groan, the two of them rolling off the edge and onto the floor with a sound like thunder. Ellis manages to pin Bam, forearm to throat, but Bam just laughs and bites the man’s wrist, hard enough to draw blood.
I circle the fight, looking for an angle.
Ellis is screaming now—not words, just fury—and he flings Bam off. Bam slams into the dresser, cracks the wood with his back, and comes up giggling.
"You hit like a bitch," he says.
Ellis charges him, but I catch him mid-stride. I jam a knee into his ribs, then wrap my arm around his throat. He bucks, elbowsme in the jaw, and the taste of copper floods my mouth. I hold on, squeezing tighter, until his face goes purple.
"Stop," I hiss into his ear. "Stop, or you die right now."
Ellis thrashes, then collapses to his knees.
Bam picks up a lamp and smashes it across the back of Ellis’s head. The man drops, groaning, barely conscious.
I fish the sack from my belt and haul it over his head.
Bam zip-ties his wrists, this time pulling hard enough to break the skin.
"Board’s not so tough in their pajamas," Bam says, panting. God, I can’t fucking tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
Ellis tries to rise, but Bam plants a boot in the small of his back and grinds him down. I kneel and slap the side of his face, sharp and stinging.
"You’re done," I say. "No speeches, no final words. You’re just a delivery."
Ellis moans, the sound ugly and wet.
Bam wipes sweat from his brow. "That was better than sex."
"That’s because you’ve never had good sex, clearly," I say.
He winks. "Let’s haul him out."
The man is dead weight, but between the two of us, we get him down the stairs. The carpet stains as we go—blood from his wrists, from his bitten arm, from the lump rising on his skull.
We drag him through the garage and out to the curb, where the driver has already rolled up in the van, engine idling.
Opening the back, we load Ellis in, drop him next to Harrington, whose sack is now smeared with vomit and snot. Ellis gurgles a curse, but we don't answer as we close the door.
Bam looks at me, hands on hips, breath still coming in hard. There is a cut on his cheekbone, bleeding in a perfect bead.
"You good?" I ask.
"Never better. You?"
I touch my own face, the throb of the punch still ringing in my jaw. "Better than him."
Bam laughs, claps me on the shoulder, and we hop into the car.
There’s no time to savor it. We have more to do.
