"About twenty minutes. There’s a Blue Toyota Camry on Main with LVM plates that needs to disappear too."
"Roger that. See you in twenty," Malcolm said before he disconnected the call. "So, you're Maverick's kid brother. Zero family resemblance. Probably get that all the time."
"Yeah, our mother had terrible taste in men. That’s the only connection our biological fathers have. But Maverick’s father was around the most, so we all learned to drink and fight like proper Irishmen.”
“So, what makes you the man for the job?” he asked me. The guy steepled his fingers like I was seeing him for a job interview. I crossed my arms over my chest unwilling to play his games. I was getting really bored with his stupid questions. I didn't like assholes who thought they were holier than thou because they held some shitty government position. Polished, pretending to be something more, we were nothing more than assassins who killed even more dangerous criminals. This guy looked like maybe he didn’t want to get his hands dirty like the rest of us. But Maverick vouched for him, and I knew he couldn't be as big of a poser as he looked.
"I get the job done."
“What’s your track record?”
"Listen, I'm not here for a date. I've got shit to do, and Mav said you could help. Said wanting to hurt these people is right up your alley, not that I’d be subjected to a game show."
"He's right. I've been trying to bring down this ring for a very long time. A lot of people I care about have been impacted by these fuckers and they don’t cave. They’re ruthless and lethal.”
“So am I.”
“Good to know. Whatever you need, the MC can help."
"You sure you don't need to check in with the Prez or some shit?" I asked, grinning. I always gave Maverick shit about the MC. I couldn’t help getting under this guy’s skin, too.
"I answer to both—the rule of law and the MC. You don’t want to be in this town and not have the brothers on your side. Traffickers are our number one targets, and those fuckers don't stand a chance in hell with the brotherhood on their tail. Since the whiz kid is now in Valor, she’s under our protection."
A guy barged in wearing a Valor cut and communicated something in sign language to the DA.
“A blue Camry on Main. LVM plates,” Miller said out loud.
The guy turned and looked at me with a piercing stare as if daring me to speak up. When we made eye contact, I could tell he was a finisher like me. Same look of steely determination I saw in the mirror every day. I nodded my head curtly and he nodded back.
“Patriot, Malik. Malik—Patriot. Malik’s brother is a member of Viper” he said by way of explanation.
There were already too many people involved for my liking.
"So this Trudy person, the social worker, she can be trusted?" I asked him.
"Yes. I vetted her myself. Her story isn't mine to tell, but she's all in. You can trust that."
The social worker was now compromised and I worked with a clean slate. If you knew, you had to be in, otherwise, I’d have to take her out. Too many cooks fucked up my kitchen, and my recipe for revenge was already perfect. I wished the girl had come straight to the MC and not involved an entire shelter in the gig. But my method was methodical and if I had to take along a social worker, I had to take her along.
“If she gives me an ounce of trouble, a fucking peep I don’t like, I’ll consider her a casualty of the job,” I told Miller straight.
“She’s one of ours and she won’t give you trouble. In fact, she may be of help.”
I rolled my eyes. "Is there a safe house you had in mind?” With two extra appendages, I needed to be more inconspicuous than a hotel.
"There is no way I'm leaving a traumatized young lady with you," Malcolm said, his hands going to his tie and loosening it a bit. “Trudy can help you manage the girl. She specializes in rehabilitation.
I smirked at the gesture with the tie—something a lot of guys in my line of work did. They wanted you to know they might look like an ad in a magazine, but they’ve got to remind you they’re still street, ready to knock your block off if you decided to talk out of turn. But one thing Malcolm didn't know about me was that I could play his game too, I just didn't want to. I never understood putting on a suit and trying to fit in.
I knew who I was—a killer. I was a monster and I craved the kill, wanted it, lusted for it. When I put a bullet in some mark’s head and watched him bleed out at my feet, it made me feel alive. That’s how I got my life back. I preferred close kills over sniper shots; liked to smell the coppery scent of blood mixed with gunpowder in the air. I got a sense of satisfaction from the kill knowing I took one more prick off the streets and spared a kid from the trauma me and my brothers went through.