“Depends on your definition of good news,” he leans back, slinging an arm over the back of the couch. He makes it look like doll furniture.
“Good news would be me getting the go-ahead to take the prick apart limb by limb. It’s the only thing I want to hear.”
“Bad news it is then.” His brows collide. “His boys say he’s dead. Didn’t make it out of the fire.”
I balk, my face contorting into disbelief and suspicion. There’s no way. My mind plays that night over, breaking his hand, a boot to the face from Jimmy, the little cunt’s defiance and cockiness. No fucking way. I shake my head. They’re lying.
Pointing his finger at me, Jameson says, “That look on your face was the same as Jimmy’s. It’s all too convenient. That asshole had a busted jaw and hand. There’s no way he didn’t make it out,” he speaks my thoughts aloud.
“So, he’s in the wind?” I say what we’re both thinking. Motherfucker. I should have gone back for him that night. Willa’s sobs from earlier boom in my head. He needs to go to ground. She will never be fucking free of him otherwise—she’ll never start healing.
Jameson stands, kicking my boot with his. “That’s what we’re going to find out. Grab your jacket and kiss the wife goodnight.” He smirks down at me.
I let the remark slide as rage seeps into my veins. Her brother is playing games with the wrong people. If he’s not fucking dead, he’s going to be. I don’t give a fuck if there’s permission. I’ll take the heat—I’ll take whatever I have to if it means Willa is safe.
“Where we going?” I stand, following him into the hallway.
“To fuck up someone’s face until they talk.” He turns, giving me a once over. I’m wearing the same outfit I gave Willa: sweatpants and a basic tee. Raising a brow, I dare him to say something about his appraisal. “I’ll be in the truck,” he grunts.
I’ll get fucking changed.
Forty minutes later, we pull up in a shitty neighborhood. Run-down houses line a road with smashed streetlights, offering obscurity. I make out a couple of silhouettes sitting on the steps where Wesley Mateo lives.
“These assholes are like rats. Where there’s one, a dozen more lurk. Lets go in quiet—get the information we came for and get out,” Jameson tells me, pulling his Glock from his ankle holster. He stares at me with a raised brow, waiting for me to agree.
“What are you insinuating?” I pull my pistol from my holster inside my jacket and grab my knife from its sheaf. His gaze drops to my blade. “You want one?” I ask, offering him the handle. “I have a spare.”
“Of course you fucking do.” He shakes his head, climbs out of the car, knifeless.
“Don’t act like I’m a weirdo because I carry a knife.”
“Oh no, that’s normal as hell,” he scoffs. We slow our pace toward the house on alert. “Who wants to be normal?” I grumble low as we approach the steps going unnoticed by the two stone heads outside. Jameson’s gun is an inch from their face when they both jolt in alarm.
Placing a finger to his lips for them to remain quiet, Jameson pushes the barrel of his gun against one of their temples.
“We’re here for one person. You can either become a causality or fuck off and live another day. You choose,” I tell them, lifting my knife menacingly and grinning like a crazy fucker. They look to each other and jerk their chins like bobbleheads before running off. This is why Milo could never surpass street-level dealing—no one is loyal to him or his number two. You treat your crew like shit, they’ll turn on you as soon as trouble comes knocking. That’s why the Royal Bastards MC appealed to me. It’s a brotherhood—loyalty, respect, family.
Jameson looks over his shoulder at me, mouthing, “Unlocked. Fucking idiots.” He twists the doorknob, and it gives way, opening with no force. The scent of weed hits as soon as we enter. Voices from a TV vibrate through the house. Laughter rings out from one of the back rooms, and I signal with my hand to move toward the noise.
These assholes are fucking stupid to be this careless. We reach the room where the most noise seems to be coming from and push open the door to three boys who barely have fucking hair on their chins.
“What the fuck?” One jumps up from the couch they’re lounging on watching some shit movie and getting high on their own supply. “We’re just runners,” he blurts when I tap his friend’s cheek with the barrel of my gun in warning.
Jameson grabs him by the scruff of the neck and shoves him back onto the couch. “We don’t have anything.” The boy with my gun to his cheek quakes.