To Catch A Rook (All The Queen’s Men #1)

9. Chapter 6 - Kellan

“ D rop the fucking gun and put your hands behind your head.”

My words were commanding; authoritative. The timbre of a well-trained soldier. Or, as my father expected, a general of war.

The gangbanger, in his early twenties at most, didn’t stop his finger from releasing the safety. I let out a frustrated sigh before aiming at his trigger hand and firing my bullet, shooting his finger clean off .

I felt nothing as I barreled toward the sobbing man, now collapsed in a heap on the cold asphalt, screaming in pain as he cradled his semi-amputated hand to his chest.

I had warned him, but he hadn’t complied. We were victims or victors of our own choices. Tonight, the gang leader would choose to lose his finger, or lose his life. But the choice would be his to make.

“Where are you getting your guns, Malachi?”

The greasy blond man’s bloodshot eyes glared back at me through the evident pain, clamping his lips in blatant defiance.

Death it was, then.

I rolled my shoulders back, the muscles tight beneath my navy suit jacket. I’d already put in a day with bureau duties, following up on the latest investigation that had brought me back to Carlisle. Now I was spending my evening working on the other set of responsibilities that ruled my life.

I was getting too old for this. Only two years away from forty, but I might as well be seventy-five. I wouldn't live that long.

I pressed my boot onto his knee and bore down on him. The entirety of my 250-pound frame dislocated his knee cap within seconds. The piercing shriek of pure agony filled the abandoned alley, but no one was around to hear him.

No one but me.

“I’m asking again, Malachi. The twins didn’t supply your last three shipments, and the family hasn’t sanctioned their distribution. Who supplied the guns?”

I held my boot over his other knee, the actual threat hanging in the fetid air of a dry mountain night. Malachi stared at me through vengeful eyes, but still he said nothing.

I had to admire his ability to look death in the face with such outward hatred. His arrogance reminded me of my brothe r, another raging man who also chose to lose his life than admit defeat.

I could admire the tenacity, but the misplaced skill wouldn’t be doing him any favors tonight.

I cocked my trusty Glock—not the FBI issued handgun currently tucked safely in my sedan, but the pistol I had been gifted on my fifteenth birthday—and pressed the butt of the silencer into the bleeding man’s temple.

“You broke our agreement, Malachi. Do you know what Antonio does to people foolish enough to cross him? My brothers are sadists, but he—he is the devil himself.”

The sniveling, shivering sack of shit was going into shock, his body violently shaking against the cool metal pressed against his skin. The combination of fear and excess adrenaline coursed through his veins as potent as the strongest opiate.

I had been conditioned against this kind of biological response by the time I was twelve. Fear made the most seasoned soldier a liability—and the Carlos Cartel didn’t make allowances for liabilities. Even from the little boys they trained to become men.

I pressed the barrel deeper into his sweating skin.

“Your guns killed that ten-year-old boy last week, you sick fuck. Your guns murdered his mother and maimed his brother. Who should I hold responsible for this, Malachi? You? Or your supplier?” I lightly pressured the trigger; it clicked ominously.

Malachi choked on a desperate sob before succumbing to the inevitable.

“Al-al-varez.”

Finally.

I took one last look at the sorry fuck who’d been brash enough to cross the family and shot a bullet into his brain. He fell to the pavement in a slump.

A s oothing cold slid through my veins like it always did when I took a life. Malachi Levi was not a good man, and the sorry stain of his sad existence wouldn’t bring me nightmares tonight.

I took out a silk handkerchief from my trousers and rubbed it over Old Faithful meticulously before dabbing at the splatter of blood that had misted my cheeks and collar.

My fingers flew as I sent a text to the waiting clean-up crew. Before leaving the alleyway for the warmth of my Land Rover, I took one last look at the oozing corpse at my feet.

Gangbangers. Desperate for power, hungry for notoriety, but with shit for brains and tiny-dick syndrome.

Their kind disgusted me, even as I knew from the law’s point of view—the law I spent my day upholding, mostly—I was no different. My actions equally killed innocents, and there was no hope for my redemption.

I rolled my shoulders again and made my way to my vehicle, heading back to my temporary apartment to settle in for the night.

I had a debriefing tomorrow and I wouldn’t be keeping the Director waiting.

“How have we not heard about these guys until now?”

I scanned the reams of paperwork strewn in front of me as Patricia Stanhope, my legitimate boss, leaned against the back of the couch, her weathered face pensive as she considered my question.

The woman was a powerhouse—a relic of an old age of crime-fighting, with a reptilian skin and a brain that moved far quicker than anyone I knew—other than my father. She had been the one to find me all those years ago—the one who saved me from a soulless life.

It had come at a cost for both of us.

She tucked wiry silver strands of hair behind her ears before answering—her irritated tell, even though her face remained neutral.

“They’re a careful lot, but incredibly effective,” she mused, picking up one statement from the table to skim its contents.

“We’re talking about huge swindles here—hundreds of millions of dollars in assets from less than ten parties. Artwork, single edition vehicles, drained private accounts… dating back six years. It looks like there’s a heist of some kind every ten months or so, and the perpetrators disappear into the night. No trace of their existence—false identities used, state-of-the-art technology and disguises—it’s the most sophisticated operation I’ve ever seen.”

Knowing her history with the organization, that was saying a lot. Patricia had built a reputation for being a shrewd shark. ‘Trish the Fish’ could smell something fishy from ten miles away, and sniff out the culprit quicker than most at the bureau. Though anyone who wanted to keep their balls wouldn’t dare to utter the unsanctioned nickname to her face.

Anyone except me—but I had somewhat special privileges. That, and the fact that she wouldn’t hesitate to clock me over the head if she felt it was called for—a move HR wouldn’t let her get away for anyone else.

“Trish,” I murmured quietly, my eyes filled with all the things I wouldn’t say out loud. “This is going to take some time. I wasn’t planning on being here as long as this is going to take. I”—I swallowed tightly with the admission—“being in Carlisle isn’t good for me.”

Her steely gray eyes softened, but only a fraction. “I need you here, Kellan. You have your entire team at your disposal. Use them. There are a lot of people breathing down my neck, and God forbid another millionaire loses his favori te trinket. I need this taken care of—quickly. The sooner you solve it, the sooner you can escape this town.”

She tidied the papers in front of me and handed the pile over before turning to put on her suit jacket—a not-so-subtle indication our meeting was over.

“And you can tell your brothers to fuck off and do their own dirty work for a change.”

There were no secrets between us. She had been there since the beginning, so there couldn’t have been. Though I certainly tried. As much as I liked and respected the woman—the only mother figure I’d ever had in my life—I was just as much a pawn to her as I was to Antonio. A weapon to be wielded when the time called for it.

I dipped my head in respect before the staunch woman turned on her heel and left me alone with my thoughts in the makeshift satellite office. It was a nondescript corner suite in one of the many modern high-rises in the downtown core, with just three desk setups and a small couch in its center.

I stood from the cramped couch and stretched my legs. My muscles longed for release; a workout, or a satisfying fuck. After my last run-in with Hillary, I doubted that avenue would be open to me anytime soon.

Hillary Lane reminded me of a younger version of Trish. Fierce and tough, with a tender heart under the spiny shield—if you just knew where to look. Occasionally, she dropped her walls and let me see it, if only during the times I had her stripped bare in front of me, awaiting my instructions.

Images of her naked, tempting body flooded my senses. The swell of her breasts, her plush, pink pussy dripping onto my bed sheets...

The first time I took her to bed was the beginning of my downfall. My cock stiffened to steel at the memories; even though I was the only one in the barren space, I discreetly adjusted myself before I put a hole in my pants.

A workout would have to do, then. I grabbed my bag from beside the door, texting my number two—Maverick Rogers—as I went. The more the team could investigate before I had to step in, the better.

Sequoia County might have been home at one time in my life, but now it was nothing but a prison. And wanted men only survived by avoiding their prisons at all costs.

If only I had that luxury.

“Fuuuuuuck.”

The low growl echoed through the shower stall as I filled the sexy muscled ass with my cum. I squeezed the gym rat’s cockhead with firm strokes and his body pressed into mine as his own release spurted onto the marble tiles with a shudder.

The workout I had escaped to wasn’t enough of an outlet. When the hot redhead at the high-end gym I frequented kept running his eyes over me as I pressed three times my body weight, I seized the opportunity for what it was. A fast fuck to release my demons with a man I’d never have to see again.

He turned in my hold, and a lazy smile spread across his full lips. Sticking his hand under the automatic shower gel dispenser, he spread the slick foam over his palms and onto my heavy cock, still semi-stiff from orgasm.

For a brief moment, I let him soap me up, closing my eyes to pretend this stranger meant something to me; that the heat of his body was mine to own, mine to command.

But he was a means to an end, and he’d played his role. I opened my eyes and clamped my hands over his wrists, pushing him away from me in the cramped space.

“ Not a cuddler, huh?”

The hot stream of water still spraying from the shower head muffled his chuckle. He turned his toned body into the stream and lathered himself up, like fucking a man twice his size in a public shower was an everyday activity.

Maybe it was.

It wasn’t for me. Being in Carlisle was already making me reckless. It hadn’t even been a week. A man in my position couldn’t afford to be reckless.

I ignored his teasing and shifted my considerable bulk to walk out of the stall and away from this bad decision. A surprisingly powerful grip tugged on my wet hair from behind. I turned to shoot him a warning glare—a glare that could make most men piss themselves. His playful smirk stopped me in my tracks.

“I like a kiss goodbye after a good ride, mate.” He bit his lip and winked a green eye as he continued to soap himself up; his complete lack of intimidation causing me to pause.

Intimidation wasn’t about fear; it was about power. In every sexual transaction, I always held the power—with anyone but Hillary. Even then, she handed her body over to me to be worked as I saw fit.

This man didn’t bat an eye and his gaze roved over my naked form with blatant lust. Tugging on his dick, he brought himself to half-mast as I stood there, momentarily dumbfounded.

I snapped out of my temporary lapse and growled out an “I don’t kiss.” Then I shoved back the curtain and stalked through the locker room, leaving the anonymous fuck and his stiffening cock behind.

I’d pay off the manager to remove the smug man from the membership so I could come back and work out in peace without my poor decision sticking to me like a foul smell.

One problem solved—on to face the rest of my shit-filled day.