“Where’s the meeting point?” Gator asks, pressing the tip of his favorite Bowie knife against the man’s throat.
“There’s an abandoned warehouse on the east side of town,” he gasps, his wide eyes trained on the knife. “By the old paper mill.”
Tacoma nods to Bash, who makes a note on his phone.
“Who’s your contact?” I ask.
Carl and Will exchange a look, and Carl shakes his head.
“Fuck you, I’m not dying for those motherfuckers.”
I almost laugh. It’s funny he thinks he’s getting out of here alive.
“No!” Carl tries to yell. “They’ll kill my family.”
“Fuck your family!” Will turns his attention to my brother. “They call him Demon.”
Tacoma gives me a look, and I grin. Now we have a name.
“Anything else I should know?” my brother asks, his tone making it clear this is their last chance to be useful.
Both men shake their heads, their eyes begging my brother for mercy.
But, that ain’t happenin’.
Tacoma sighs, then pulls his knife from his belt. “You tried to take my daughter,” he says quietly. “There’s only one punishment for that.”
“No. Please?—”
Without hesitation, he draws the blade across Carl’s throat. Blood sprays across the concrete floor as the man gurgles and chokes, his eyes wide with shock before the light in them dims.
Will starts screaming, thrashing against his restraints.
“Nobody fucks with the Kings.” I step forward, yank his head back and drag my blade across his throat, severing his vocal cords and carotid artery in one swipe. Hot blood coats my hand as I hold his gaze, watching the life drain from his eyes.
“Good fucking riddance.” Stepping back, I wipe my blade clean on his dingy white shirt.
“Your woman, huh?” Journey asks, stepping up beside me and planting his hands on his hips as he surveys the mess my brother and I just made. “Foxy’s gonna be pissed.”
My lips twitch. She sure as fuck is. As the club’s cleaner, getting rid of these assholes and making sure there’s no evidence left behind is her job.
“Fuck,” Tacoma hisses, already heading for the door.
We all laugh.
No voodoo pussy for him tonight.
Chapter Eleven
Frankie
Staring at the amber liquid in my glass, I swirl it around and watch how the light catches it. I take another sip and grimace as the whiskey burns my throat on the way down. How in the hell do people drink this stuff?
“You’ll get used to it,” Foxy says with a knowing smile.
My eyes drop to the glass in my hand again, and I frown. “Yeah, I’m not so sure about that.” Because ick!
Foxy’s green eyes twinkle with amusement.
