“Bring it to me,” Snake offers, interlacing his fingers on the table. “I can unlock it, no sweat.” At seventeen, Snake is already a tech genius. No title, but he’s on the board. Being the president’s son gets you perks.
“What if he notices it’s missing?” Butch questions. “He could get spooked and be gone with the wind.”
As the club treasurer, Butch cleans the cash and keeps our finances in order. At sixty-two, he’s also the oldest member of the brotherhood, but he’s still a force to be reckoned with.
“Where is he now?” I ask Buffalo.
“Still at home,” he replies, leaning back and propping his elbows on the armrests. “Said he wasn’t going out till later.”
“You four, head over there now. Check his call log, text messages, voicemails, emails… leave no stone unturned. Nip this situation in the bud tonight,” Zeus orders, then looks at me. “There’s only one place for a rat.”
I dip my head, acknowledging the unspoken order. “Say less.”
Zeus slams the gavel down and we disperse. The night is about to get bloody, and bloody is what I do best.
I swing the driver’s side door shut and join the others on the sidewalk. We took the SUV instead of riding our bikes—better to catch Brick off guard. The night is still. No nosy neighbors.No witnesses.
In grim silence, we start toward the deteriorating single-family home. It’s a wonder this place hasn’t been condemned. I’m betting a strong wind would blow the peeling wooden structure clear across the county line. The lawn, if you can even call it that, is predominantly dirt and overgrown weeds. A weathered garden duck is the sole adornment.
Buffalo slowly opens the rusted chain-link fence surrounding the property, and we follow behind him with quiet footsteps. It’s dark inside the house, save for the dim light visible through the curtains hanging over the window to the left.
My hands buzz. Heart hammering.I love this part.Killing hits like a high. Twisted? No doubt, but damn if it doesn’t get my dick granite hard.
We scuttle up the rickety porch steps and stealthily enter the house, turning into the scarcely furnished living room. There, we find our target conked out on the tan leather sofa, snoring loudly and mouth agape. A commercial for a popular fast-food restaurant plays on the muted flat-screen television.
I perch on the coffee table, pulling a Glock from my shoulder holster. Another Glock is strapped to my ankle, and a knife rests at my hip. My holy trinity.
Cricket grabs the half-empty beer bottle next to me and dumps the amber liquid over Brick’s face. “Wakey, wakey, motherfucker.”
He sputters, lurching to a sitting position. “What the fuck?”
“Sorry for disturbing your beauty rest,” Snake retorts sarcastically.
Brick’s wide gaze darts between us, anger quickly morphing to trepidation. “What’s going on, boys?”
“Give me your phone,” Snake states, motioning for him to hand it over.
“Why?” He chuckles nervously, his beady eyes glued to my firearm. “Did you lose yours?”
I latch onto the fucker’s scrawny neck and yank him to the edge of the sofa. “Where is it?”
“On the charger,” he croaks, grappling for air. “In the kitchen.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” I quip and shove him away from me.
Cricket retrieves the device and tosses it to him. “Unlock it.”
“What’s this about?” he asks, sweat forming on his blotchy forehead.
I slide my finger over the trigger. “Unlock it. Now.”
He scurries to obey, prompted by the unspoken threat. Snake plucks the mobile from his trembling grasp and begins searching for the smoking gun. Brick looks to Buffalo for help, but his cousin planted himself in a corner and noticeably avoids eye contact.
“Who are all the unknown callers?” Snake asks, his thumb flying over the screen.
“Telemarketers,” he answers, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Or maybe you have something to hide,” I accuse.
