Chapter Forty-Eight
Now…
Once the initial shock wears off from hearing his voice again, after weeks of not hearing it—and it sounding like that—my body kicks back into action, and I dive for the walkie on the floor.
It must have fallen off me when Reznikov kneed me in the nuts. For the second time.
I’m just saying, the kid might have an actual death wish.
Although… given what was just happening in here, prior to The Ivory’s frantic call, I’d say the kid might be justified in acting out. He clearly has a lot more issues than I ever gave him credit for.
Even with the device in my hand, I’m still hesitating for an extra second or two. Maybe preparing myself for the strenuous act of speaking with him again—our last conversation was the night of the storm, when we took the prison. And we all remember how that went.
Maybe thinking of what to say that’ll make me sound like someone who’s totally winning this war, when in actuality, he’s tired, stressed, and hanging on by a goddamn thread.
Like a Charlie Sheen winning! Meets New phone, who dis? type response.
Or could it be the equally likely, though not something I would ever admit to anyone, ever, fact that I’m giving myself a couple of extra seconds to panic, because despite everything that’s happened in the last thirteen years—everything that lead to the fall of Alabaster Penitentiary, and what’s followed—he might still wield some form of control over me, however frayed and weakened over time.
But it’s that thought which has my muscles stiffening in the purest wrath I’ve ever felt, as I clamp the button down and bark through a clenched jaw, “Took you long enough.”
The roar of his Rolls-Royce engine accompanies his voice. “I know… I know, okay? I’ve called my men off… so that we can talk.”
My gaze narrows, scanning over the faces looking back at me. All frozen solid, chatter finally having gone silent. You could hear a pin drop.
Well, that and the rumbling of his car speeding closer. He must be coming up the coast to the spot where sand meets trees. Barely a quarter-mile through the woods from Oscar’s Attic.
My eyes linger on Angel as I respond, “I have something of yours… What’s it worth to you?”
Tires screech. “Jonathan… please,” he’s out of breath, like he’s running. “Just… don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want.”
I can feel my own eyes trying to leap out of my fucking head, the same way that damn-near everyone else’s currently are at the sheer insanity of those words; such a plea, in such a desperate tone. Coming from him.
A bunch of shouting in Spanish comes from outside. And then I hear him.
“Retirarse!” He barks at his men, who must have followed him here, since they’d been retreating only moments ago, I’m guessing reluctantly, at his order.
“How close is he?” Peters calls to our nearest lookout.
“Ten yards, due west,” Linetti responds. “Velle, I’ve got a clean shot…”
“Stand the fuck down! Jesus…” I bark, rubbing my eyes. “Let him through.”
I take a moment to look to my partners. Unfortunately, they’re no help. Rook and Joy both appear just as mystified as I am right now.
This is the moment we’ve been fighting for… Weeks of active battle; blood and gunpowder and so much aching adrenaline, I’ve been subsisting on it more than the limited food and sleep we’ve all gotten.
Only for it to end like this…
Some part of me—a pretty strong part, though I couldn’t admit that to my people—never actually expected him to surrender. Even with Angel here, I figured he’d keep pulling his usual all-powerful, never-surrender, Genghis Khan massacre everyone who even breathes wrong bullshit.
And yet, here he is, striding into enemy territory more or less unarmed… Begging.
It’s completely fucking asinine. And I’d be a moron if I didn’t suspect him to be playing me. Though, I’ve known him a long time… and in thirteen years, this is something I’ve never gotten.
Which makes it even more infuriating.
I can hear his footsteps growing closer, crunching on leaves and twigs. My people grip their weapons, as if preparing for an ambush. I wouldn’t put it past him. But if he wants to come in here guns blazing, he’ll get his ass popped in seconds flat. I’m all too ready to shut him up for good.
My trigger-finger is itchy as shit.
“Jonathan…” He calls my name from just beyond the trees.
But I stay planted inside the armory, M-16 in my fist.
“Come on out and we’ll talk,” I seethe. “Slowly.”
Barely ten seconds later, he emerges from within the darkness of the forest. And honestly, my first instinct is to just fucking shoot him in the face.
Apparently, I’d forgotten, after not seeing him for weeks, how much animosity I’ve been harboring toward this man. Over a decade of actions that in so many ways have proven him evil, or at least as evil as a human being can get.
After everything he’s done to me, putting a bullet in his brain would feel so goddamn cathartic. Maybe a little confusing, unwittingly disparaging. But mostly satisfying as fuck.
And yet, something annoying happens. When I see how visibly distraught he is, disheveled and dripping with worry, anxiety, fucking fear… It severely dampens my desire to rip him apart with my bare hands.
That he’s oozing this angsty, timorous yearning from his pores like a goddamn pheromone is watering down my fury considerably. It’s a fucking buzzkill.
But then, the irritation of his current state ruining my rage-high is making me angry all over again.
“Hands!” Peters shouts at Manuel Blanco as he takes tentative steps closer.
He lifts his hands.
“Weapons on the ground,” I command, unable to help the low growl that is my voice.
No matter. He’s barely twenty feet from me now.
“Right. Okay,” he breathes, reaching behind his back as slowly as possible. He obviously knows how this works.
Removing a pistol from his belt, he holds it between his two fingers, bending just enough to drop it onto the ground by his feet.
Peters stomps over, rifle aimed at him, and picks up the gun.
“That it?” I grumble.
The Ivory sighs, “That’s it.”
I glance at Peters, a quick nod signaling to pat him down, which he does, rather aggressively, which is amusing to witness. But still, goddamn mind-boggling.
“He’s clear,” Peters grunts, shoving The Ivory forward.
He stumbles, making it within ten feet of the armory before I bark, “That’s close enough.”
Near enough that I can see his throat dip, he slowly lowers his hands. Swaying on his feet in visible apprehension, his eyes are wide, brows furrowed.
Oh man… This timidity game is fucking sending me.
You can’t play concerned Daddy when I’ve seen the browser history of your mind, motherfucker.
“Well?” I snap, cocking my head. “You came to talk… So talk.”
His eyes shift briefly. “Angel… Is he—”
“He’s alive,” I cut him off. “Safe… For now. But that can change with a snap of my fingers, so you tell me, Ivory… What is this kid worth to you?”
I think I can see him fucking shaking as he exhales raggedly. “Everything.”
My chest burns, and I straighten, stepping forward. “What was that?”
“Everything,” he repeats, louder and clearer. “He’s worth everything, Officer. Mi pajarito es todo, so please… por favor, you can do whatever you want to me, but just don’t hurt him. I am begging you…”
“Excuse me?” I hiss. “You’re begging me? Is that really what you just said??”
“Y-yes, I’m—”
“Fucking stupid motherfucker,” I mutter under my breath with clenched teeth, turning to storm inside the armory.
Grabbing Angel by the arm, I drag him back out with me, pulling him skidding in the dirt, right up to The Ivory, the barrel of my rifle pressed into the kid’s chest.
The Ivory is immediately shuddering. “N-no… wait, please—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I roar in his face.
He flinches. “Everything you’ve done to me over the years…
everything you’ve put me through! And you’re begging?
!” Whipping my gun off the kid, I aim it at The Ivory’s forehead, my tone going dangerously low, “I should blow a fucking hole through your fucking skull.”
Angel squeaks.
“Okay, yes.” The Ivory nods frantically. “Sure, that’s fair. I deserve that… But he doesn’t, okay? So just please… leave him out of it. He too has suffered enough at my hands.”
Gaze pinging between him and the kid, it narrows to bemused, skeptical slits. I aim the gun at Angel once more, and The Ivory fucking whimpers; a purely helpless noise to match the distress on his face.
“What is this…?” I rumble, peeking at the kid. “I knew there was more to that story you told us.”
“I only told you the beginning,” Angel whispers, jittery, but nowhere near as petrified by the prospect of himself or The Ivory being shot as his parents’ killer apparently is.
“I think I’m piecing together the middle.” My eyes find The Ivory once again, brow arching. “So I guess the question is… how’s it gonna end?”
He sighs, tiredly. “However you want. So long as he’s not hurt, I don’t care about anything else.”
“Oh, so now you’ve got an Achilles heel?
” I scoff, getting in close. “Do you remember threatening my partners? The loves of my goddamn life… Do you remember telling me that they would be dead?? Their entire families… everyone they’ve ever met will die a slow, painful death…
” I seethe his words from the day I returned, inches from his face.
“That’s what you said to me, Jefe. Remember that? ?”
“Jonathan, I—”
“You assured me that if I crossed you, you would take everything from me,” I snarl. “So what’s stopping me from taking everything from you?? After all… it’s only fair, isn’t it? Sangre por sangre…” I hiss back the words he’s said to me. “Blood for fucking blood.”
He shakes his head, over and over. “I didn’t—”
“You killed my mother!” I thunder, my voice damn-near shaking the ground beneath us. “Maybe not with your own hands, but you are responsible for her death!”
“No!” He cries. “No, that’s not true. I didn’t do it, Jonathan, you have to believe me!”