Thiago rolled his eyes and returned his attention to Sloan. “What do you say, Killough?”
Sloan stared at him for a long moment before slowly nodding. “Outside.” He spun on his heel and began to walk toward the side door. I was quick to follow him, Fallon at my back, and Thiago came after us. By the time we filtered outside, the narrow alleyway was crowded with a mixture of Cartel and Company men.
Sloan slid off both his wool coat and suit jacket, leaving him in only his white dress shirt and a black vest. He rolled up his sleeves until they were around his elbows.
Thiago did the same.
The men surrounded the bosses in a circle. Fallon and I pushed our way to the front, near Sloan, so we could support him if we were needed. Thiago laid his jacket near the feet of one of his men, then did the same with his handgun. Sloan passed his belongings to Daire, including his Glock.
When they were ready, they walked around each other a few times before they raised their fists. I gritted my teeth and dragged Fallon closer. I didn’t want him out of touching distance in case something happened and I needed to protect him.
Sloan smirked. “Ready to get your arse kicked?”
Thiago answered by taking a swing, but Sloan ducked, avoiding a fist to the cheek.
Sloan spun around, keeping his hands raised as a smirk teased his lips. “Is that what you call a punch, Reyes?”
Thiago sneered, bouncing on his feet. “I’m only getting started, Killough.”
“So am I,” Sloan drawled. “That’s why your cousin, Joaquin, is the next to die.”
This time when Thiago attacked, it was a near miss, scraping along Sloan’s cheekbone. Sloan still managed to escape a direct hit by taking a step backward, though. In retaliation, Sloan got in a punch to Thiago’s gut, earning a grunt.
“Yes!” Fallon pumped his fist. “Good one, Boss.”
Other men from the Company cheered while the Cartel booed and yelled stuff in Spanish.
Thiago’s eyes turned to flint as he rubbed a hand over his stomach before refocusing. The true fight began, and they bobbed and danced on their feet like it was a real boxing match. Fallon shouted directions at Sloan, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Sloan had been fighting since before he was born.
The first hit to Sloan got him in the jaw, and his head whipped to the side, blood flying from his mouth and painting the asphalt of the alleyway with a gleaming stripe. He didn’t let it ruin his concentration, though, and immediately he planted his fist on Thiago’s cheek in retaliation.
Ten minutes in, both the bosses were bloodied. Thiago had a bleed somewhere in his right eye because it was red where it should’ve been white. Sloan’s lip was cut and bleeding profusely while Thiago had a gash on his forehead. Blood stained the ground.
The fight was becoming tiresome. The longer the brawl went on, the more bored the men became. I hadn’t noticed movement to my left, at first, and when I finally looked, one of the Cartel men—taller than the others and wearing a Dodgers cap—shifted forward, toward Sloan’s back, as though he was going to throw a punch of his own. Fionn moved, though, and grabbed the man by the back of the shirt, tugging him away hard.
The Cartel soldier landed on the ground near Thiago’s jacket, and Fionn pointed a finger at him. “Don’t fucking cheat.” He swayed but stayed strong in his stance, and if Sloan had been looking at him, he would’ve been proud. Fionn raised his chin, staring the soldier down like a real fecking mob boss.
Everyone else didn’t seem to care what had happened, their attention still on Thiago and Sloan, even though the fight was dying down.
The soldier Fionn had knocked on his arse shifted and lunged for Thiago’s gun lying on his jacket. I reached inside my suit to grab my Glock, but it was too late. He’d already pointed the handgun at Fionn and squeezed the trigger.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Fionn’s body jerked with the force of the bullets to his chest, and he blinked, as though unaware of what had happened for a long, daunting moment. My heart stuttered and the fight stopped as both Sloan and Thiago spun to see what had happened.
Fionn took a few steps back before he tripped and fell to the ground, gasping for air as he clutched his bloodied chest.
I pointed my gun at the soldier, but Daire beat me to it.
“Fionn!” The rage in Daire’s voice was venomous as he aimed Sloan’s Glock, which he’d been holding, at the Cartel soldier. He shot him once between the eyes, and the soldier’s head flung backward, cracking against the ground as his body went limp.
After that, all hell broke loose.
19
