Clay waited, the early fog of nerves giving way to the precise, clear-cut vision he got when adrenaline did its job. Energy and strength shimmered under the surface of his skin. God, he was born for this shit.
Clay asked, “Call from who?”
“You’re hurtin’ me, man,” Ape moaned. Clay tightened his hold.
“Shut up,” interrupted Clay. “What’s this traitor bullshit?”
“Got an informant. Told us you’re—”
Something hard and cold was pressed to his forehead. A gun.
“Put it down,” said a voice right beside Clay’s ear, dark and certain. Fuck. Of all the guys in the club, Jam was probably the deadliest. Ex-military, ex-con, and racist as fuck, Jam had wanted Clay’s blood since the day he’d seen his too-dark skin. If Clay hadn’t saved his life about a year ago, the psycho would never have voted him in. “Handles’s on his way back. Told us to lock you up till he gets here.”
“I’m not what you’re thinkin’, Jam.”
“Not thinkin’ a goddamned thing…brother.”
For a good five seconds, Clay waited, the barrel of Jam’s gun burning a hole in his temple and the blade of his KA-BAR ready to slice into Ape. Five seconds during which he pictured doing it—ending this man’s life in exchange for his. It was almost worth it. Almost.
Except a whole goddamned operation depended on Clay getting out alive and giving his testimony in federal court. It depended on Handles going through with the huge deal that was set to happen in less than an hour—was probably happening right now, in fact. The only way Clay could ensure it went down as planned was by releasing Ape, because if he held on, he was a dead man.
Finally, he opened his hand and let Ape go. The big dude came after him then, of course. All brawn and no smarts, as usual, but with Jam’s weapon leveled on him, Clay was powerless to counter. A meaty fist to the jaw, another to the stomach, and Clay waited, doubled over, for his breath to return.
Fisting Clay’s hair in a parody of his earlier move, Ape leaned down and whispered into his ear, “You’re a dead man, Indian.” He spat a fat, sticky wad onto Clay’s face, wiped his own, and backed up a couple of steps.
“Grab his phone and his weapons. I’ll lock him in his room till Handles gets back,” Jam threw over his shoulder before leading him away.
“Not a traitor, man,” Clay tried in the hall.
“Shut your face” was all the answer he got as Jam brought him to his room. Jam pulled the key from the lock, shoved Clay in, and locked the door behind him.
Through the door, Clay heard him tell someone to shoot on sight.
Jesus, how the hell was he going to get out of this? He turned to look at the room and found it ransacked. Fine. They wouldn’t have found anything incriminating anyway. Giving a hard exhale, he pulled the backup phone from his shoe and made the call.
“Speak to me,” said Tyler.
“Wire not working? I asked for backup thirty minutes ago.”
“We’ll get someone in there soon as we can.”
“They’ve got me in my room, under guard, while they wait for Handles. Did it happen? Did you guys get him?”
“No. He never showed.”
“Fuck.” Clay ran a hand over his face, surprised to see blood when he pulled it away.
“Bread there with you?” Tyler asked.
“Don’t know where he is. Why?”
“If you were outed, stands to reason—”
Beyond the walls, something blew, rattling everything. The air in the room stilled for a millisecond in that strange vacuum of suspension that happened before everything exploded.
When the next wave of chaos came, it was in the form of shots fired outside the club walls, along with agonized screaming and shouts from all over. More gunfire in rapid bursts—club AK-47s, from the sound of it.
Clay put the phone back to his ear and yelled through the dense fog of noise, “The fuck’s going on out there, Tyler?”
