Chapter Six
James
My head snaps to the side, blood flinging from my lips and pain pulsing up my neck. I spit, watching the bloody glob land on the corner of the mat, half expecting to see a tooth. Thankfully, it’s only saliva. Still, Marcus is more ruthless than normal today. Or I’m simply off my game.
Now is not the time to be off my game.
A fist slams into my kidney. My lungs empty when I hit the floor.
“Get your shit together, Hartley!” Marcus yells, standing over me. He has the kind of face that’s just begging to get slammed into a brick wall. “Leaving your brain at the door—”
“Is a good way to get it broken, yeah I know.” I grunt as I climb to my feet.
The stupid saying originated with my dad.
It means if your mind isn’t in a fight, then you’ll be clobbered enough to cause brain damage.
Not the cleverest phrase, but my dad took a lot of hits to the head, so what can you expect?
“Hands up!” Marcus demands. He’s technically my trainer, though you wouldn’t expect it by looking at us.
He’s nearly two decades older and half a foot shorter, with a smooth face and no tattoos.
In the real world, he could pass as a respectable finance guy.
Here, he has a ruthless reputation. Marcus the Mad Hatter—because his fights often end with the opponent in the hospital, several screws loose.
I bite back a complaint and lift my fingerless MMA gloved hands. I manage to block his next few hits and even get in a couple myself before I’m on my back again.
This is embarrassing. I’m supposed to be an undefeated fighter. My fights rake in loads of money for the Saints. Yet here I am, being demolished by a five-foot ten man in his late forties.
Twenty minutes later, Marcus calls it and tells me to run the block and “un-fuck my head before I lose it.”
After the run, I shower and change. I turn my phone on to find several texts, most from Saints and one from my dad with a picture of his new dog.
It’s a terrier mix, and watching him fall in love with the ratty thing has been nice.
In the picture, the dog is curled up in Dad’s old cut, and the text included reads, ‘Vander is a Saint now.’ I like the photo, ignoring the tiny bubble of guilt that I haven’t visited Dad in over a year.
He hasn’t come back to Arizona since moving to Virginia, so it’s on me to go to him.
The final texts are from none other than Sadie Oliver, who seems intent on driving me insane as revenge for the “stalking.” Letting her have my phone number was a mistake. She texts nonstop. In the last two hours, she’s sent three messages.
SADIE OLIVER
I invited Luna to Taco Tuesday tonight and she said she’s busy with Saints business. Anything interesting? I would offer to help, but Taco Tuesdays are sacred and tonight’s will go later than normal. I have ?plans?
Ping me when you have next steps for Operation Bourne Identity [sent with invisible ink effect]
Our ‘operation’ has a new name every time it’s mentioned. Last time was Operation Doubtfire. There’s also been an Operation Set It Up and an Operation Parent Trap. And every time, she sends the message with that stupid effect that makes me rub the text to actually see it.
Without replying, I head out.
Theo is in his office at the Iron Cage when I arrive. His hair is a tangled mess, and he’s hunched forward, head in his hands.
“Raph suggested we ‘sic June on ‘em’ today,” he says in greeting.
I shut the door behind me. “Raph is never serious. Don’t let it get to you.”
He looks up, and the carefully veiled fear in his bloodshot eyes is a punch to the gut. “He’s still joking about it. Lorry might be gone, but too many people know about her. It bothers her, whatever she says to the contrary.”
Deciding how to explain why a detective kidnapped Theo’s seemingly law-abiding therapist girlfriend a few weeks ago was a mountain itself.
All of the Saints knew June could kill people—hell, they saw it when she slit that Fiver’s throat before he could shoot Theo—and they weren’t going to accept a half-baked explanation.
Despite a lifetime of keeping that part of her life a secret, June didn’t want Theo to lie to his family for her.
Theo, on the other hand, couldn’t stomach putting her in danger by adding thirteen names to the growing list of people who know about her hobby of killing assholes.
In the end, we told them that June is often hired to help people escape shitty situations and dangerous men.
Sometimes, that ends poorly for the man in question, including Lorry’s rapist cousin.
Unfortunately, that gave idiots like Raphael ammunition to make hitman-esque jokes. He idolizes June but has no idea when to shut his fucking mouth.
“Enough of the Fivers fit her victim type that she’d do it if we asked,” Theo continues. “But it’d make her a bigger target. And the kill wouldn’t be for her.”
“We’re not going to use June to pick them off. That’s never been how we deal with problems.” Not that we’re afraid of getting blood on our hands, but it’s not our default.
“We’ve never been in a gang war before.” He scratches his beard, which is longer than he typically keeps it. “Maybe I should call Rocket.”
Damn. This is really getting to him. Theo never takes Saints issues to Dad, saying he deserves his retirement.
“We’ll figure this out. If they insist on pushing us, we’ll push back.
We’ll call in anonymous tips to the cops and disrupt their trading.
Daryus and I will empty one of their hideouts and crack a few skulls. But June won’t get involved, promise.”
“Bowie sent me another message earlier today.”
Lowering into the seat across from his desk, I raise my brows in a silent nudge to continue.
“He said that if I won’t give him the ‘throat slitter,’ he’ll settle for Nico.”
“You’d think the boy sawed his cousin in half or something,” I say.
This ‘war’ didn’t actually start with June.
It started when Bowie, the leader of the South Five, found salacious texts between his cousin and Nico.
He beat the kid nearly to death, even though Leticia is a twenty-year-old, fully consenting woman and Nico is only two years older than her.
“He’d probably saw Nico in half and drop his corpse on our doorstep if he could,” Theo mutters. “They have no interest in settling this without spilling blood. ‘A life for a life’ and all that bullshit.”
“We need to get the DA on their backs. They’re more scared of being busted than they are of us.”
“That’d be ideal, but they’re locked up tight right now, and our usual dirty cop is currently rotting out in the middle of the desert.” He groans, then adds, “We need more information. If we just knew where they kept their shit and when they move it…”
I hesitate, an idea forming. But I think twice before voicing it.
Mentioning her is a surefire way to get the vein in Theo’s neck bulging.
Instead, I wade through the conversation with him, brainstorming and trying to assuage his worries for an hour before slipping out and pulling up the mostly unanswered text thread.
It’s time to make Sadie useful.
~
“You want me to what?” she shouts.
I wince and hold the phone an inch from my ear. When she doesn’t say anything else, I repeat my earlier statement. “I need you to find Amber. She’ll never talk to me, but you shouldn’t have a problem. I think she’s out of rehab now.”
“Isn’t it detrimental to someone’s recovery to spring uncomfortable visits on them?”
Amber, Theo’s ex-girlfriend, recently spent six weeks in rehab at Theo’s insistence.
He tried breaking up with her when her using got out of hand, but she wouldn’t disappear.
Then we found out she was spying on us for the South Five to cover her debts.
Theo was angrier than I’d seen in a while.
It’s a miracle all he did was force her into rehab with a disturbingly creative threat about what he’d do if she left before the program was over or ever tried to contact the Saints again.
Sadie’s not wrong, but I don’t give a fuck about Amber or her recovery.
“Isn’t making amends one of the steps?” I ask, toeing off my shoes in my bedroom. “You’re just helping her do that. If she wants to make amends with the Saints, she’ll have to help you, because she won’t be within several yards of us ever again.”
“That’s some diabolical logic, Weasley.” A sound like a gust of wind follows her words, and I wonder where she is. A glance at the clock tells me it’s after five, so maybe she’s driving home from work. Or she’s walking that giant dog of hers.
“Look, Amber owed, maybe still owes, the Fivers a lot of money. She bought from them and spent weeks spying on us for them. I want to know what she told them. What they were most interested in. How many people she talked to. Any locations for their hideouts that she may know. Anything she can remember.”
“Gang hideouts? What is this, Red Dead Redemption 2?”
I pause halfway through kicking off my pants. I’m pretty sure she was waiting for the hesitation because she cheers. “I did it! You got that reference.”
My lips dig into a scowl. “I’ve understood others, too. I don’t live under a rock.”
“Sure, but you actually got this one. In the way you only can when you like the object of reference. You’ve played the game.”
I pull my pants off and transfer the phone to my other ear. “Whatever. Will you do it or not?”
She groans. I can hear her grin. “Of course, I’ll do it. Anything for our psycho besties, remember?”
I’m about to say Theo isn’t psycho, but I don’t want to entertain her any further. “Turn off your location settings and check for trackers before you go. We don’t want June or Theo to know you’re visiting Amber.”
“Trackers?!”
Fuck. Right. Sadie doesn’t know about the one Theo put on her car last month. June took it off without telling her.
“Just in case,” I say, keeping my voice dry and unconcerned. “I’ll send over a tracker detector tomorrow. Doing a regular scan is smart practice anyway.”
“Maybe in your world. In mine, stalking and tracking people isn’t normal.”
“Your best friend is a serial killer.”
“Semantics.”
“That’s not—whatever.” I shake my head and rub the bridge of my nose. “We’ll talk after your visit.”
“Perfect. I’ll bring snacks.”
“Don’t bring snacks.”
“Are you a salty or sweet kind of guy?”
“Sadie. No snacks.”
“Both. Got it.”
Oh, my god. “Don’t fuck this up. Amber is our only real insight into the South Five.”
“Geez, I know. I’m not you. I know how to talk to women.” She waits a beat, as if expecting me to react to the insult. When I don’t, she adds, “Well, if that’s all, I’ll be going. There are tacos to be eaten and margaritas to be drunk. Operation Get Smart will continue tomorrow. Over and out.”
I hang up without another word.