Chapter 9
ARATH
This is the first day I’m leaving Elgin alone in the house.
Okay, that’s a lie. He’s not alone. There are half a dozen guys with him. But I’m not. I have business to conduct this morning.
Interestingly enough, my brother ‘disappeared’ after an interception—going incommunicado, not actually missing—after bringing someone home who was also the accidental victim of some asshole with a gun.
Unlike Elgin, the shots didn’t miss the man Oxley brought home.
I could tell that my brother was completely out of his comfort zone when I spoke to him. This isn’t something he does regularly. Or ever. My brother is a very private man and doesn’t allow people into his personal space.
He brought home a bloody, unconscious victim. To his own damn home. That’s new. I called another brother, Kairo, to check in on his team while Oxley attends to his patient.
Amusing. Surprising. For some reason, it makes me smile, too. Oxley doesn’t let people into his life, so something about this man made him do something incredibly unlike him. That’s enough for me to make sure he has time to explore whatever it is.
Of course, I made a mistake while trying to ensure that Oxley takes his time.
I called Kairo. I should have known better than to ask him for help on Oxley’s behalf.
So while my team and I drove through the busy streets of Philly, I laid into Kairo to leave our brother alone.
I shouldn’t have called him. That was my mistake.
Kairo is a pain in the ass. He should be the middle child. He has a chip on his shoulder the size of Alaska, but is unwilling to say why. He’s a complete dick and has always taken that out on our brothers, Oxley and Noaz, the most.
Noaz put Kairo in his place once, and since then, Kairo has backed off on the verbal abuse toward Noaz. Oxley hasn’t, which means Oxley gets the brunt of Kairo’s blind anger. One of these days, I’m going to beat the fuck out of Kairo and maybe forcefully dislodge that damn chip he carries.
I shake off thoughts of my brothers to focus on my team as we wander through a park downtown this morning. I have Martin dressed in the clothes Elgin was wearing the night he was shot at. He’s not as bulky as Elgin, which worked out well enough since I have him in Kevlar underneath.
In reality, he looks unnatural. Anyone can look at him and see that he’s wearing something under the shirt. However, I’m willing to bet that Empire isn’t smart enough to figure that shit out.
I chose Martin for this task because he looks remarkably like Elgin from afar.
Martin-as-Elgin walks beside me through the park. I’m not wearing Kevlar. Arrogant of me, perhaps, but Empire doesn’t actually want to be Van Doren’s target, and I’m sure they know they will be if they harm me at all. I don’t hide who I am.
Too bad for them, they’re already the target of my family. Me, specifically. Perhaps being the target of a single Van Doren isn’t intimidating enough to fall back into their own lane. I’m about to make an example of them for the entire city.
Another eight of our guys are surrounding the park. The goal isn’t to flush someone out. I’m predicting that if we wander the park long enough, word will travel back to Empire and someone will come to ‘finish the job.’
I’m willing to bet they’re ready to attempt a murder right in front of me. That’s the kind of misplaced arrogance they have, thinking they’re a poor man’s mafia family.
So while they’re being stupid, my guys are surrounding us, hiding in plain sight, ready to take the idiot into custody who shoots Martin-as-Elgin.
We walk aimlessly, talking about hockey.
The topic serves two purposes. One, as a hockey player, Elgin would be interested in talking hockey.
And two, convincing Elgin we don’t know hockey and have no interest in the sport is a blast, but it means we’re sneaking around and watching the playoffs.
We don’t get to discuss the games as we usually do.
“My money is still on Vegas,” Martin says.
“Your money is on Vegas every year,” I say, chuckling.
“They have a hot team. And their floor show is amazing.”
“They’re doing really well for a newer team,” I agree. “First year franchise in the 2017-18 season, and they make it to the Stanley Cup. My money is on them for life.”
“They’ve made it to the playoffs more than they haven’t in their four seasons,” I agree.
“Right?! This is their year.”
I hum as I think about this. “I’m holding out for Boston. It’s been a hot minute since Boston has made it, and it’s time they get there.”
Martin shakes his head. “We’re talking odds, Ara. Their odds—”
His words cut off as the unmistakable sound of a gunshot echoes through the air, followed directly by screaming. I’d have loved to clear the entire park before doing this. If for no other reason than to keep the innocent safe.
Martin falls to the ground, as he was instructed to do. He needs to appear dead. Not in an attempt to convince them that they hit their target, but because I don’t want them to keep shooting. Vests protect a rather small portion of the body. A headshot will kill him.
I turn toward the direction I believe the gunshot originated and put my hands into my pockets as I see a scuffle. Two of my men are fighting another. Struggling to get him down. The struggle ends when Tommy punches the guy in the head.
“Such a brute,” I mutter, smirking.
Tommy stands, brushes his shirt off, and looks in my direction. I shake my head. Though he’s a ways away, I can see the way he smiles. Maybe I can’t see it in real time, but I’ve seen that pleased smirk several times.
I wait for the cars to get in place before I get Martin to his feet and we head for one of the cars. Once he’s loaded inside, I feel more comfortable with the situation. Standing outside, within the protection of the open door, I look around.
There are still people screaming, scrambling, pointing. In the distance, I hear sirens. My phone rings, so I climb into the car and shut the door. Wendall puts it into Drive and pulls into traffic, effectively disappearing.
I pull my phone out and hit the answer button as I examine Martin. He gives me a nod, indicating that he’s fine, and I answer.
“Hello, Jalon.”
“Do I hear screams?”
“You know screams are my preferred background ambiance.”
He chuckles. “How’s the situation?”
“Decent. Returning from a successful confrontation now. You?”
“Calling to make sure you received the invitation to Noaz’s wedding.”
“Of course. I’ll be there.”
“Good. Did I hear correctly that you have a hostage situation?”
I laugh, leaning back in the seat. “He’s not a hostage. I told him he could leave and take his chances if he felt comfortable. He didn’t, and therefore, he’s being kept safe, sound, and satisfied.”
Jalon chuckles. I can see him shaking his head.
“Hey, while I’m thinking about hostages, I spoke to Oxley this morning,” I say.
“And?”
“He’s fine. He brought home his own hostage, though mine isn’t injured.”
“I’d heard there’d been a casualty,” Jalon says. The frown is evident in his voice.
“He’s not dead. Doc Mark has been there. But I made the mistake of asking Kairo to check in on Oxley’s team until Oxley gets back to work.”
Jalon sighs. “Arath.”
“Yeah, I know. I have no idea what I was thinking. I’m getting old.”
My brother snorts. “Indeed.”
“Hey, tell me about this person Noaz is marrying.”
“Briar. Middle of three children from Anaheim. Father is the provost of Rainbow Dorset University. Recent graduate from Eastern State University with a degree in English. Works freelance editing while determining his career direction. One of Oakley’s best friends.”
“That’s very clinical. Now tell me something useful.”
“Briar was smitten with Noaz from across the street. He’s very sweet to them. Very obviously in love with our brother. Just what Noaz has been waiting for.”
“What’s the reason for the shotgun wedding?”
Jalon hums. “That’s a good question. I anticipate we’ll find out at or after the wedding.”
The car comes to a stop outside the basement door, and I push the car door open. “Put me down for a plus one. My hostage will be accompanying me.”
“Don’t think you’ll have Empire taken care of by then?”
I shrug, though he can’t see it as I follow my men dragging an unconscious gang member inside. “Perhaps, but either way, he’ll be coming with me.”
“I’m not sure if you’re enjoying toying with Empire or your hostage more,” Jalon muses.
I grin. “Got to go, Jalon. My victim is opening his eyes, and I need him to understand what it means to defy a Van Doren.”
Jalon chuckles. “Enjoy. See you soon.”
“Check on the Kairo situation for me?”
“Will do.”
“Later, brother.”
“Be careful, Arath.”
I grin. “Yes, Daddy.”
He huffs, and the line cuts off. As the oldest of the second round of children born to our parents, I remember a time when our parents were around and then when they left.
I can confidently say that Jalon is more of a father figure to me than my own father.
For Noaz, Jalon is the only father figure they’ve ever truly known.
We always teased Jalon growing up that he was our father. But in reality, he’s far more than our brother.
The man lying on the ground as he dazedly regains consciousness has the same aesthetic as Monkey. Tatted. Oversized clothing. A stupid amount of jewelry.
I shake my head and lean over to drag him to his feet. He recognizes me. I’m sure I’m on their milk cartons. Beware the Philly Van Doren.
“I’m not telling you anything,” he snaps.
I nod. “I figured that’d be your answer. I’m going to let you hang out with Monkey for a while and see if you change your tune.”
He puts on a brave face and rolls his eyes. Since I’m holding him up by a fistful of his shirt, I can feel him shaking. I drag him toward the door where Claude stands. Claude opens it, and I toss this new person into the room.
He stumbles, regains his balance, sees the mutilated body of Monkey on the floor, and stumbles again as he scrambles away with a choked scream.
“Interesting how you fall right into my hands every time I need a new one of you,” I muse. “Monkey lost his usefulness, so we finally allowed him to die. He’s on the verge of turning into human sludge, so for the next twenty-four hours, we’ll see if his ghost wants to talk to you. Enjoy.”
I shut the door as this man, absolutely horrified, turns and rushes at the door.
He bangs on it and screams for us to let him out.
It continues far longer than I thought it would.
My men and I enter the room across from this one with the camera feed to watch him frantically try to slam his way through the door.
“I’ve always been interested in whether being locked in a room with a corpse is an appropriate form of psychological torture,” I muse. “Do you suppose it’s heightened because he may have known Monkey in life?”
“You’re a sick, sick man, boss,” Saul says. “But yes. I think so.”
“Hmm. Monitor him. I don’t particularly want him entirely broken. I want some answers.”
“Of course.”
I turn and seek out Martin. “Injured?”
He shakes his head and lifts his shirt. There’s an angry red mark on his chest. “Close range, so I felt the impact. I’ll be bruised, but I’m not dead, so there’s that.”
“Very good. Keep me apprised.”