Chapter Eleven #2
Carson hit him once more, then smiled into the mirror at nobody. “You should have recognized me,” he said. “Brother of the one you let die. Took you long enough.”
Oren huffed a sound. “I would have recognized you sooner if you hadn’t been wearing brown contacts. Hamid died in war, Carson, as fucking millions have over the years. We follow orders just like you did.”
Carson laughed, an evil maniacal sound. “True, but your orders killed my brother, and it is my job to avenge his death.”
Oren spat blood to the side. “Big words for a guy working over a cuffed target. You want justice, uncuff me. You want theater, keep talking.”
Dale had to bite back the growl. Stop pushing him, Oren. Give us a second to line this up.
“High,” Ty breathed in Dale’s ear, so soft it barely moved the comm. “Catwalk. Two meters left of center. I need him two steps left—off Oren’s line.”
“Copy that,” Dale whispered. To Bateman he said, “I’m going in.”
Bateman nodded once.
Dale walked in like he had all the time in the world. Carson turned at the sound of his boots. The mirror gave Carson their angles. He moved behind Oren, dropping low to make himself less of a target, and pressed the barrel of his sidearm to Oren’s head.
“Morning,” Dale said. “Oren said you wanted a stage.”
“This is the perfect room,” Carson said. “A stage that should have come with an audience. Shame about the crowd. You canceled class.”
“You’re not much of a draw,” Dale said. He let his eyes flick to the mirror, just enough for Ty to read his line. “You done grandstanding, or do you need to monologue some more?”
Oren snorted, then winced. “He doesn’t know what that word means, babe. It’s quite long. Maybe stick to one or two syllable words only.”
Carson pressed the muzzle harder. “He talks more when he’s afraid. Have you ever noticed that?”
“He’s not afraid,” Dale said. He took one slow step into the angle Ty needed. “He’s just sick of you pushing bullshit like you are.”
“On target,” Ty said in his ear. “Turn left when I say—make him take a move left then hold.”
Oren’s mouth quirked. Stupid, brave man. “You going to do it or are we waiting on your courage to turn up?”
Carson’s eyes blew wide with rage. He surged a step left to snarl into Oren’s ear, lifting his chin as he dragged the muzzle for a cleaner angle.
Dale looked him in the eye and said, pleasant as he could manage, “You’re already dead, Carson—or whatever your name is—you just don’t know it.”
“Now,” Ty breathed.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, do you think your brother went straight to hell?” Dale asked causally, and Carson stepped left, face red, chin up, temple clear.
The shot came from above. Carson dropped where he stood. The round grazed Oren’s neck, a bright line of blood that looked worse than it was.
“Clear,” Ty said, already moving.
Dale was on Oren in two steps, hands on the cuffs, breath loud because the part of him he put away for polite company was out and pacing. “Stay with me,” he said, voice lower than he meant it to be. “Don’t talk.”
“Didn’t plan on poetry,” Oren said, which was the wrong time to be funny and exactly like him. He looked over at Carson’s body. “Say hello to your brother for me, asshole.”
Ty came in hot, rifle strapped to his back. He took Oren’s other side and shouldered into the space like they’d practiced it a hundred times. Dale got the cuffs open, and Oren sagged into them both.
Behind them, Nick and Sam swept the corners. Ricky and Ezra cleared the bench and the weapons. Bateman started calling the post-shot cadence like a metronome—med, bag, secure scene, cameras back up.
Dale heard it. He didn’t care.
A growl lived in his chest, and he didn’t bother to pretend it wasn’t there. “Men who touch what’s mine,” he said to nobody in particular, “don’t get to keep their heads in one piece.” It wasn’t a threat. It was the shape of the morning.
Ty’s hand pressed hard to his side. “We’re done here,” Ty said, eyes on Oren, worry in his expression. “We’re going home.”
“Yeah,” Dale said. “Home. Bateman, you’ve got the fallout. Don’t knock on my door for two days.”
Bateman’s answer was what it always was when the call was right. “Copy that.”
They moved Oren between them. As they stepped out into the morning, Dev stepped out of the shadow like the ending of a bad joke.
“You missed all the commotion,” Dale said, not slowing.
Ty shot Dev a look. “Thought you were sending help.”
“I did,” Dev said. “Sent the three men who know how best to set you straight.”
As if on cue, Sam and Nick exited the gym as Aiden and Deefer came down the path to join them.
Oren, bleeding and perverse, gave Dev a thumbs-up. “A-plus program,” he said. “Five stars. Would definitely recommend.”
Nick snorted. Sam tried not to smile and failed.
They took the turn toward the Ridge House. Dale’s men were breathing and moving under their own power. That was the only math that counted. They’d talk later. They’d fight if they had to. They’d fix it. For now, he wanted them upstairs, on his sofas or in his bed, under his hands.
The rest of it could wait its turn.