“Nae, now stopfeckin’asking me,” I whisper back. “How many?”
“At least two.”
I nod. “Dinna deid my lad, the stuffyfeckerfrom the photo. Ye hear?”
He nods back. “Phelps is all yours.”
Heart pounding in my chest, I signal with two fingers. Brody’s leg propels forward. The double door kicks in. Gun close to his chest, Brody lets out another two rounds. Each bullet pierces the forehead of two suited guards on either side of the door. Never having a chance to use their Berettas, one man stumbles back into a pillar. An antique vase crashes to the ground. The other man slumps over the back of a chair.
Bill Phelps sits behind his desk. With shaking fingers, he’s just unlocked a gun box. I snatch the steel box from his trembling hands, slamming it across his face.
Camdyn calls our olderbrathairstingy for the two kill shots. The big brute laughs in response.
This is afeckin’game to them. To Bill Phelps. To mybrathairs. To everybody but me.
I drop the bloodied box, fist flying. Nae need for questions. Once I deid thismotherfecker, I’ll reconfigure any of the programs on his computer system. Get my squeaky-clean life back.
Bill begs, “Please . . . don’t kill me.”
“Och, ye wanna play yerfeckin’games, eh?” I let up. My knuckles burn from pounding his bony face. My blood-painted fist is an inch away from his blubbering mouth.
I grab him about the collar, standing to my full height. Bill Phelps’ golfing shoes dangle from the floor. His white face is bleached of color as I choke him out. “Ye scared myfeckin’hen,scabby wankstain!”
“I’m sorr—”
I bring him back to the ground. The thought of living without Chevelle sends my fist reeling, pulverizing his face over and over.
I fall apart. My fists have tenderized Phelps’ face, reconfiguring themotherfecker’snose. Dissatisfied, I jab my thumbs into his eyes until they’re a jellied pulp, leaving him unseeing. Soon, his cries will cease too. The MacKenzie animal my da created reigns. Blinded by rage, I grip his throat. With a sharp twist, his neck snaps. A terrifyingly delightful feeling whirls through me. This is a lifestyle I could get used to.
I glance around—a triumphant, vicious smile on my face. Call me the bloody Joker. It’s how I’m feeling.
“Aye! Ye did good,brathair,” Brody cheers.
Bill Phelps’ face is unidentifiable. Good, the uglymotherfeckergot what he deserved. Rising to my feet, my chest huffs. I run my thumb along my pinkie, where I’d made a promise to my wife. A promise I will fulfill tonight and for the rest of my life. I’ll be the lad she fell for.
A small smile appears on Camdyn’s menacing face as he pulls the ski mask over his jaw. “Drinks?”
“Aye! Let’s go for a bevvy!” Brody shouts.
I nod, the elation continuing to stir through me. “Aye, I’ll buy the whole bar a bevvy. Call yer friends, American, because that’s the type of money I’ve got.”
“The rich, cockynuggethas returned! Let’s celebrate!” Brody exclaims.
“Oh, Leith.” The sound of an automated voice might as well have tossed me on myfeckin’head!
Brody scratches the back of his neck. Camdyn’s eyebrows pull together.
“Take a gander at the television screen, my friend. Right behind you.”
We all do an about-face. I glance up at the ninety-inch tellybox bolted to the center of the wall. A silhouette of a man, obscured by darkness, sits behind a table.
“The MacKenzie brothers in action. Love the synergy. I’d hate to be on your bad side.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Camdyn hisses.
“Yes, the little brother. You’re ballsy like Brody. Yet, you’re often polite, and your quiet demeanor has placed the wool over the eyes of many people—your cohorts included.”
My weebrathair’sfingers curl under. Measuring his words, Cam says, “Okay, ass-twad, keep my name out your mouth!”