Chapter 10
LEGION
Istared at the steel door, a Rotten Apple symbol in the corner was the only indication that this was Bastard property.
I parked in the fenced motorcycle yard behind the building.
Inside, exposed brick, old wood floors, and I spotted security cameras at every corner.
Pool tables sat in one corner while a long scarred bar ran the length of the common room.
The air in the bar tasted of stale nicotine, fried grease, and the metallic tang of blood.
It was a dive in the truest sense, but it was a sanctuary for the one percenters who drove through the city and needed a place to chill.
The place was dark, peeling vinyl booths the color of bruised plums lined the walls, and the overhead neon sign buzzed with a rhythmic, dying flicker that cast a sickly green pallor over the place.
I sat in the furthest booth, my back to the wall, watching the door.
A condensation-slicked bottle of beer stood before me, but I wasn't drinking it.
My mind was still trapped in the neon haze of the previous night.
Lantana’s face kept popping up in my thoughts.
I could still feel the radiating heat of her skin, and the soft feel of her skin beneath my hands.
She almost seemed surreal to me. A woman had never had an effect like this on me and I honestly had no idea what to make of it.
But she had this way about her that was addicting.
When I had followed her to the club, I told myself it was for the job.
I needed to get close to find the leverage.
But when her hand had brushed against my chest and neck, the friction of her fingertips through my shirt had sent a jolt of electricity straight to my groin.
She was soft in all the places that mattered and it took everything in me to walk away.
I had kept my identity hidden so far, playing the part of a stranger she just met at a club, but now, that lie felt like a noose tightening around my throat.
In my world, deception was a tool, but with the Harlots, it was a death sentence.
If she found out who I really was, the softness of her skin would be the last thing I felt before she tore the truth out of me.
My phone vibrated bringing me back to reality and my normal surroundings. I glanced at the screen and Colt Winters, the VP of the National Chapter’s, name came up.
I slid the thumb slide and pressed the phone to my ear.
"Tell me you've got something," Colt's voice crackled.
“Hey Legion, been a long time, how’s life treating you?” I answered sarcastically.
“We’re under a lot of stress.” Colt replied.
“Yeah, I get that.”
“Have you found anything?”
"I'm working on it," I replied. My voice sounded hollow to my own ears.
"Working on it. Right. That's what you told Hoax three days ago."
I sighed, looking at the amber liquid of a whiskey shot the bartender had just slid onto the table. I knocked it back in one go, the burn searing a path down my throat.
"It could be better," I muttered.
"You should be happy you got sent back home, Legion. You're out of the line of fire for a minute. Enjoy the silence while it lasts."
"This run is crazy, man," I said, signaling the bartender for another shot. "Everything is moving too fast."
There was a pause on the other end before he gave me the bad news.
"My sister wants to know if the Bastards have sent anyone out. I told her I’d try to see what’s going on. Do they know you’re there?"
Colt was in a strange position. He had fucked over Jameson, in a move that should have gotten him a shallow grave in the bayou.
Instead, he was currently in the process of redeeming himself.
He had been stripped of his VP title, but in the eyes of the club, he was still the VP.
Jameson wasn't ready to fill that seat, and the internal politics of the Bastards were a minefield that no one wanted to step in.
They were brothers in arms, but the trust was a shattered mirror, held together by necessity.
"I haven't told them yet," I said.
"What are you waiting for?"
"I'm looking into one of them," I admitted.
"Which one?"
"Lantana."
I heard Colt let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "Lantana? Jesus, Legion. She is not one to fuck with, dude. You're playing with a blowtorch in a gasoline factory."
"I can handle her."
"Can you? I've heard she's used some wicked shit on some of the clients. Real dark stuff. I heard a story once about a guy who thought he could play the girls. He beat one of them, some kid barely twenty. Lantana found out."
I leaned back, the vinyl of the booth creaking under my weight.
"What happened?"
"She didn't just kill him," Colt said, his voice dropping an octave.
"She kept him paralyzed. Some kind of chemical cocktail that locked his muscles but left his nerves screaming.
She kept him wide awake, eyes pinned open, while she chopped his penis off.
Piece by piece. She wanted him to feel every single slice of the blade before he finally bled out. "
"What the fuck?" I whispered.
"Rumors, ya know. But in our line of work, rumors usually have a body count."
I stared at the green neon light reflecting in my whiskey.
"Well, I can't blame her," I said.
"Spoken like a man who hasn't had his gear dismantled," Colt retorted. "But that's not all. I even heard she's the cause for Sam Lovino's death."
I sat up straight. "Where'd you hear that?"
"A connection. A deep throat in the digital underworld. Looks like there was a hit on Lovino in one of the encrypted chats. Apparently, he was fucking over someone in the Jersey mob, skimming numbers off the top of their gambling rings. High-stakes shit."
"And you're absolutely positive they hired the Harlots?"
"Whoever did it wanted whatever was on Lovino's hard drive. The Harlots don't just kill; they retrieve. They're the best in the business when it comes to extraction."
"And your sister knew this and did it anyway?" I asked. "Duchess just signed off on a hit involving the Jersey mob?"
"She has her reasons, Legion. I don't ask her fucking questions. I just make sure the perimeter is clear."
"Reasons don't stop bullets from the Mob, Colt."
"You forget who my sister is. She’s got a Turkish lover who would go to war with Jersey if he had to. And I don’t think Jersey wants that kind of attention.
“Maybe,” I downed the next whiskey shot.
“But Lantana's famous truth serum was used to get the passwords off that drive. The mob got their money, Duchess got her intel, and Lovino got a one-way ticket to the morgue. I don't know what happened afterward, but the trail goes cold there."
“Jameson is concerned about the information on that drive.” I reminded him.
“I’m sure Stephanie knew that. She seems to know everything these days.”
I rubbed my jaw, the stubble scratching against my palm.
The plot was thickening and leaving a blood trail.
Just as I was about to respond, the heavy oak door of the bar swung open.
F.O.C.U.S. stepped in. He scanned the room and made his way over as soon as he spotted me, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards.
“F.O.C.U.S. just arrive, I gotta go.
“I need an update soon Legion, Jameson down everyone’s throat.”
“I got you. Next time we talk, I’ll have one.” I hung up the phone without saying goodbye.
"You look like shit," F.O.C.U.S. said, sliding into the booth opposite me.
"I feel like shit," I replied.
"Was that Jameson?"
"Colt. They want an update."
“Well, shit.” He said, sliding into the seat across from me and signaling the bartender. In seconds he had a beer in front of him.
"Listen," I said, leaning in close, my voice a low hiss. "Do not say a word to Duchess about me being in town. Not a syllable. I'll handle it."
F.O.C.U.S. looked at me, a smirk playing on his lips. He reached over and grabbed a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the table.
"You better handle it quick, Legion. If you lie to them, I won't be able to help you, and neither will Jameson. You know how the Bastards handle liars. They don't use a courtroom; they use a shovel."
I glared at him. "Colt says the Bastards won't help me anyway."
F.O.C.U.S. burst out laughing, a loud, barking sound that drew looks from the other patrons.
"That's for damn sure! None of us want a Harlot on our bad side. You remember Harley Quinn?"
"The comic book character? What the fuck does that have to do with this?"
"The vibe, man. The chaos. Only the Harlots don’t carry oversized hammers and aren’t psychologically warped. They're worse. They know exactly what the fuck they’re doing."
"Fuck," I muttered, sinking deeper into the booth.
The banter was cut short as the wall-mounted television, which had been playing a muted loop of weather reports, suddenly snapped to a breaking news alert. The volume was low, but the red banner flashing across the bottom was impossible to miss.
"Turn that up," I called out to the bartender.
The sound of a frantic news reporter filled the air.
"We are reporting live from the Upper East Side, where police have discovered a gruesome scene inside the penthouse of Marcus Thorne, CEO of NexaTech.
Thorne, who was recently under investigation for embezzling millions from his own shareholders, was found dead this morning in a display of extreme violence. "
The camera cut from the reporter to a shot of the penthouse building, then to a grainy image of the crime scene. Even through the pixelated screen, you could tell the scene was gruesome.
The reporter's voice continued. "Details are sparse, but sources within the NYPD describe the scene as a slaughterhouse.”
My phone suddenly buzzed and Hoax’s name appeared. I quickly answered. “Yeah.”
“Did you see the news?”
“I’m here with F.O.C.U.S., watching it now.”
I could hear Hoax clicking away on whatever keyboard he had in front of him.
“Well, fuck.” He said.
“Hold on, I’mma put you on speaker.” I place the cell phone on the table. “Go for it.”
“I don’t know what this asshole is playing at, but I think we’re dealing with a hitman.”
F.O.C.U.S. scrunched his brows. “What makes you think that?’
“Thorne was found suspended from the ceiling by industrial cabling. His body was practically carved open from the sternum to his pelvis, and his internal organs removed and arranged in a geometric pattern on the white marble floor.”
“Fuck,” I muttered.
“To make it even more fucked up. His tongue was severed and placed inside his own open mouth, pinned there with a silver needle."
“What the fuck?” F.O.C.U.S.grunted.
“Was there a signature card left?”
Hoax sighed. “Yup. On the table beside his carcass.”
"That’s not just a hit," I said, my voice flat.
F.O.C.U.S. scoffed. "They didn't just kill the guy; they turned him into a piece of art."
"But it’s different from the Lovino job. They’re all different."
"You think there’s multiple fucks involved," F.O.C.U.S. said, his expression turning grim. "They're cleaning house. First a mob skim artist, now a tech CEO. They're targeting the people who think they're untouchable."
"They're not hiding anymore."
"I think they're daring someone to stop them," F.O.C.U.S. replied. "You're the one who wanted to get close, Legion. Now you're in the splash zone."
I looked down at my hands. They were steady, but inside, I was vibrating. I had walked into a den of vipers thinking I was the charmer. Now, I realized I was just the bait.
"I need to get closer," I said.
"You're a fucking lunatic," F.O.C.U.S. replied, though there was a hint of respect in his voice. "But hey, that's why we get along."
I stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. I didn't finish my beer. The taste of it had turned to ash in my mouth.
“I’ll call you,” I said to F.O.C.U.S. as I walked out the back door toward the fenced parking.
I climbed onto my bike, the engine roaring to life and I took off down an alleyway. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew one thing.
I was totally fucked.
I shifted gears, the bike leaning hard into a turn. My mind raced, confusion taking a hold. She wasn’t capable of doing that. That was the act of a fucking killer, and she wasn’t a killer. At least not that kind.
I glanced at my phone and stared at the blank screen. I wanted to call her. I wanted to hear that voice again, but I knew that if I did, I wouldn’t be in control anymore and that wasn’t an option.
"I'm coming for you," I whispered to the empty road.
The game had changed. The stakes were no longer just about intel or territory. It was about life or death. And if it wasn’t the Harlots behind this, then whoever was, was preparing to harm them too.