Chapter 11 Ransom
RANSOM
The chop shop is as empty as it has been for the last few days. Business has been slow ever since our dust-up with Ethan Donovan and his crew, so I’m just in here tinkering with my bike. Honestly, it’s more for something to do with my hands than because the bike needs anything specific done to it.
Donovan is clearly still holding a grudge against us, and his effort to cut into our business has been successful enough that we haven’t had many customers at all lately. If it gets much worse, we might have to resort to taking on a few other types of jobs for a while.
Malice said he ran into one of dad’s old associates a while ago, Darius Ledger. Maybe he’d be able to put us in contact with some people who need the kind of work we do, although I think we all consider that a last resort. Darius was always an asshole, from what I remember.
We’ll figure something out like we always do. Just have to be patient.
Unfortunately, that’s harder to do than usual, considering how out of whack everything feels lately. With business down, we’re all just milling around the warehouse like fucking zombies. Willow is gone, and her absence is like a gaping hole in our lives.
It makes everything seem wrong.
I know Malice went to talk to her the other day, which surprised the fuck out of me. He was the one saying it was for the best that we cut ties with her because she doesn’t belong in our lives and all that. But he was also the one to break down first and go see her at her new place.
Of course he was. I shouldn’t be surprised at all, really.
Mal always tries to put on a front like he’s too tough to give a shit. And he is the toughest motherfucker I know, that’s real. But when he cares about something—or someone—he cares with his whole fucking heart. I know, because I’m one of the few people in the world he feels that way about.
Logically, everything he said when we got back from the hospital still holds true.
It probably would be better to just let Willow disappear from our lives.
She’d be safer, and we could get back to dealing with all the shit we had on our plates before our world collided with hers.
It would’ve been safer to not explain to her why we did what we did and just let her hate us forever.
But Malice apparently couldn’t stop himself.
The thought of Willow hating us and thinking that we thought that shit about her hurt him the same way it hurt me.
And fuck, it hurt.
The look on her face as she threw those accusations at us outside the hospital? The shame and pain in her eyes? The way she flinched away from me when I went to touch her? Goddamn. Just thinking about it now makes a rock settle in my gut.
Especially considering how close we were getting before all of that shit, when she used to melt into my touch and look at me with warmth and trust in her gorgeous brown eyes.
She’ll probably never look at you like that again, asshole, a vicious voice in the back of my mind tells me.
My fingers tighten around the wrench in my hand, and I yank it hard to the left. As soon as I hear metal popping, I know I torqued that shit too hard, bending the part I was working on.
“Fuck!” I snap.
Irritation roils inside me—at myself, at all of this. I let the wrench drop to the floor with a clatter and stand up, stretching the kinks out of my back.
Working on a car or my bike always used to soothe me. It used to take my mind off whatever other shit was going on. But right now, it doesn’t seem like anything can make me feel less on edge.
I scrub my hands through my hair and let out a deep breath, trying to pull myself together. When I look up, Vic is walking into the garage.
He takes one look at the tools on the floor and then shifts his gaze back to me. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. I know that look on my brother’s face well enough.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll pick it up later,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “I can’t be fucked right now.”
Honestly, arguing with Vic about the cleanliness or organization of the shop would be a welcome distraction from going around in circles in my own head, feeling shitty about Willow and possibly fucking shit up on my bike.
“I’m not here to lecture you,” Vic says, and his tone of voice definitely implies that he feels like he shouldn’t have to. Then his expression shifts a little as he adds, “We got a message from X.”
Fuck. Goddammit.
I let out a sigh and nod. “Yeah, okay.”
He turns and strides out of the garage, and I follow him, leaving the scattered tools where they are.
We make our way back upstairs to Vic’s room, and as we walk, it’s pretty obvious that my older brother is using some of the coping mechanisms that he only brings out when he’s having an off day.
His fingers tap rhythmically on his thighs in even patterns, and his lips move silently, showing that he’s counting each tap.
The kitchen has been cleaned to within an inch of its life, and the shelves where Malice and I keep our stuff in the bathroom are neater and tidier than they’ve ever been before.
It’s pretty clear that Vic is falling back on old habits, letting his OCD tendencies hit a fever pitch because he’s coping with something. With the loss of Willow. This is how he shows that he misses her and her presence here.
Malice has probably noticed it too, more tuned in with Vic by virtue of them being twins, but neither of us has said anything about it.
We’re all dealing with this mess in our own ways.
Speaking of Malice, he’s already waiting in Vic’s room, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at the floor.
When we come in, he gets up, and Vic shoots him a look before going to straighten out the blanket where it was crumpled under Malice’s ass.
“Can we get on with this shit?” Mal asks, sounds like he’s at the end of his rope too.
Vic goes to sit down at his computer, then pulls up the message on the screen so we can all see it.
It’s not really anything out of the ordinary. X has another job for us, but there’s a note at the end that says if we don’t do this and to the letter, he’ll consider our contract broken.
None of us need him to be more explicit than that. The contract being broken means that Malice will go back to jail. We’re clearly on thin ice after we defied his orders about Willow.
“Cocksucker.”
Malice huffs out a breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His jaw is tight, and I know he must be running through the many reasons he doesn’t want to go back to jail in his head.
Considering some of the shit he went through while he was locked up, I can’t blame him for that. There’s stuff Vic and I probably don’t even know about, which means it has to be worse than the stuff we do. And the shit Mal has told us is pretty bad to begin with.
The bulk of the message is X going over the details of the job, and I frown, my brows pulling together as I read.
Usually, our mysterious benefactor just wants us to fetch things for him. Files and data and shit like that—and I guess people, if we count when he wanted us to deliver Willow—covering our tracks with arson from time to time.
This seems more… sophisticated than what he usually asks of us.
And definitely trickier. Usually we deal in stealth, slipping in and out without ever being seen.
But for this, we’ll have to get close to the target, Richard Galvin, if we want to get what we need out of him.
Especially considering that Galvin isn’t just some criminal or minor thug.
He’s a wealthy businessman here in Detroit, and he’s not going to be easy to get close to.
“Well, shit,” I finally say after we’ve all finished reading, letting out a breath. “Something tells me X is still fucking pissed at us, so now he’s making us play his game on hard mode.”
Vic leans back in his chair, frowning. “This isn’t going to be easy. I can get info on this Galvin guy from a distance, but someone’s going to have to physically get close to him if we’re going to pull this job off.”
“Yeah, sure.” Malice snorts, running a hand over his tattooed forearm. “I’ll just walk up to him at his fucking country club or whatever. ‘Top of the goddamned morning to you, sir,’ and all that.”
Vic shoots Malice a look, but Mal is too busy glaring at the computer screen to notice. Considering that it’s his future on the line if we fuck this up, I can understand why he’s so on edge.
“Okay,” I say, cutting in before any of us can spiral too far. “Let’s think about this logically. Vic could find out where this guy lives, and we could break into his house.”
“I could,” Vic agrees. “But a man with that much money probably has very tight security. And I’d need to know the system he’s using and probably have remote access to hack past it.”
“And something tells me we can’t just burn his shit down on our way out,” Malice throws in.
“Alright, so what other options do we have?” I ask, folding my arms.
Mal frowns. “He’s gotta have an office, right? We could try going there. Public building, so the security would be less tight, and Vic could have easier access.”
“Yeah, but then it’s a lot fucking harder to cover our tracks,” I point out. “Too many potential witnesses, and Vic can’t wipe us from someone’s memory the same way he can wipe security footage.”
“Yeah, okay.” Malice rubs a hand over his jaw.
He’s usually clean shaven, but he’s got the shadow of a beard right now, another testament to the fact that his head is all over the place.
“So we gotta try to get to him somewhere neutral. Someplace public, but where we can blend with the crowd more easily.”
“Let me see if I can find out anything about his schedule,” Vic offers. “Maybe someone with that many connections has a busy social calendar, and we can figure out a routine to catch him in.”
Mal and I fall silent, letting Vic do his work. His fingers fly across the keys of his keyboard, the soft clacking sound filling the room as he searches through pages of information that he calls up.