Page 127 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

The air thickens with static.

Riley hears heartbeats skip and race.

The stench of adrenaline triples.

‘We think—’

‘Who is we?’

‘Myself, Stojan and Falcão.’

‘Go on.’

‘We think that this is a sign of the times.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning we don’t want Varrow City overrun with these rats once the water rises elsewhere. Read the room, Harker. The alphabet boys are—’

‘I could not care less what the CIA and FBI are saying. Hate spreads like disease and weakens all it touches, not to mention that exclusion is a sliding scale. This year it’s Naturals Only. You know exactly what comes next.’

‘My point is—’

‘I’ve heard your point,’ Troy says calmly. ‘Here’s mine.’

Whipcord-fast, he pulls out a gun and fires three shots that split the air. Riley’s eyes slam shut against the pain, hands clamped over his ears, but it’s too late, he’s made a noise.

When he opens his eyes, Santoro, Stojan and Falcão are dead, the backs of their heads blown out, and the ripe, invasive stink of fresh brain, blood and skull is so overwhelming that Riley’s stomach is desperate to purge.

But he doesn’t because Troy is looking at him.

Riley looks back.

It only lasts for a second and then Troy glances away.

‘Gallagher and Karalis, share their lot between the two of you, see that it trickles down. I’ll take any standouts plus five percent as usual.’

‘Thank you,’ Gallagher says.

‘Anyone putting up signs like that gets one warning. Just one.’

‘Understood.’

‘Thank you, gentlemen.’ Troy rises, rolls up the sleeves of his black shirt. His forearms are strong, heavily tattooed. His short dark hair is typically cropped, but it falls forward a little when he leans both palms on the table and waits for them to leave.

When they’re gone, he raises a hand, beckoning silently.

Riley creeps out of his shadowy place and joins Troy in the dining room.

The blood is everywhere.

The smell of it is too much.

Loud and violent and hot like dinner.

Riley tries to breathe through his mouth, but it doesn’t help.

‘Clean this up,’ Troy directs his men when they come inside. ‘Riley, with me.’ Riley follows, heart pounding. Troy leads him into the kitchen, pours water into a glass. ‘Drink,’ he directs roughly.