Chapter Seventeen #3
“And who else he’s feeding bad product to,” Foster adds. “If he’s willing to destabilize us, he’s willing to destabilize others.”
Bones’ mouth curves faintly. “He’ll talk.”
“Looks like we’re staying a few days,” Skip says, stretching his arms overhead. “Can I sleep in the master suite? I feel like I deserve skyline views.”
“I’m calling Patch,” I mutter, already pulling my phone out.
He answers on the second ring.
“Hey, brother. How’s New York?”
“Bright,” I answer automatically. “How’s Abigail?”
There’s a slight pause.
“Her fever spiked a few hours ago,” he says. “I got it down. It’s still elevated, but she’s stable. Lungs are clear. She’s resting.”
My jaw tightens.
“Fuck. I should come home.”
“No,” Patch says calmly. “She’s uncomfortable, not critical. If that changes, you’ll be the first one I call. Focus on what you need to handle there.”
“We might be here a few days,” I admit.
“I assumed,” he replies. “Trust me to keep her safe until you get back.”
“I do,” I say without hesitation. “Thanks, Patch. I owe you.”
“You owe nothing,” he answers. “We’re family.”
“I’ll check in later,” I say. “Got your favorite jerky at my place. Take it.”
A small chuckle. “Already planned on it.”
We hang up.
“Everything good?” Spike asks quietly.
“She’s fine,” I answer. “Patch has her.”
He nods once.
“Good.”
Behind us, Skip is still circling the topic that matters most to him in this moment.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, gesturing toward Maverick, “it would be polite to offer me your bedroom. I am your honored guest.”
“You are not sleeping in my bed,” Maverick replies patiently. “You’ll have your own room. Private bath. Balcony. Jacuzzi.”
“You don’t even have to sleep with me,” Skip says generously. “You can take the chair. Or the foot of the bed. I’m flexible.”
“You cannot speak to him like that,” Stefano sighs, rubbing his temple. “He is the Don.”
“He’s not my Don,” Skip shrugs. “He’s my Outlaw. So again…chair, floor, or foot of the bed?”
Stefano stares at him like he’s witnessing a social experiment gone wrong.
“How have you not been killed?” he asks.
“I stabbed him once,” Bones mutters casually.
“And I shot him,” I add, smirking. “He deserved it.”
Skip places a dramatic hand over his heart. “I am permanently scarred. Emotionally damaged because of both of those instances.”
“The bullet grazed you,” I remind him.
“Yes, but Bones’ knife did not graze me,” Skip fires back. “I’m fairly certain he hit bone.”
“I aimed carefully,” Bones shrugs. “No permanent damage.”
“That’s debatable,” Skip mutters.
Stefano looks at Maverick. “Your friends are… unusual.”
“In more ways than one,” Maverick says, lips twitching faintly.
Then his expression settles.
“Come,” he says. “We eat.”
I smile at Maverick’s words a short while ago.
Even during war… we eat well.
***
The warehouse smells like oil and cold steel.
Clinton stands twenty feet from us, smiling like he’s unveiling a new sports car instead of tools meant to end lives.
“Short range is simple,” he says, gesturing toward the table laid out with pistols and carbines. “Clean machining. Tight tolerances. You can feel the difference.”
Maverick doesn’t touch anything.
He just watches while Spike and I stand on either side of him, pretending to be his guards.
“And long-range?” Maverick asks casually. “You mentioned capabilities beyond standard rifles.”
Clinton’s grin widens.
“We do,” he says. “In fact, we prepared something special last night. A live demonstration.”
Spike and I exchange the smallest glance.
“You prepared it that quickly?” Maverick asks mildly.
Clinton shrugs. “We like to impress.”
“And this demonstration?” Maverick prompts.
“It’s set up at a secondary location,” Clinton explains. “Hard to access. Takes time to position correctly. We’ll be broadcasting it live once everything is ready.”
“Why not here?” I ask.
Clinton chuckles. “Because precision matters. Long-range testing requires… environment. There’s simply not enough room here.”
Maverick nods slowly, like this is all reasonable.
“Very well,” he says. “We will observe.”
Clinton nods slightly.
And somewhere else in this city, Bones, Foster, and Skip are already moving.
My phone vibrates in my palm, and I already know it’s Spike texting the group chat.
Spike: There’s a second demonstration tonight. Don’t retrieve package until then. Early delivery might delay the demonstration.
Skip: Awesome! I’m going to go get a slice or five of some good old-fashioned New York pizza while we wait.
Fucker.
He knows I’ve been craving that since we got on the damn jet.
Another vibration.
Skip: I’ll think of your pretty face with each and every bite, Tank.
Me: Fuck you, Skip. Bastard.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Clinton watching me before he steps away from his table of polished lies and makes his way toward me.
With quick fingers, I flip my screen over and pull up GPS. I press on the food icon in the corner, and the map loads up just in time for Clinton to lean up and glance at my phone.
“Can I help you?” I ask, raising a brow.
“Is my demonstration boring you?” he asks, a hint of irritation creeping into his tone.
“Well,” I say flatly, “it’s taking you fucking forever to get started. So I figured I’d find the closest pizza joint to your warehouse. Might starve to death before you pull the trigger.”
His mouth tightens.
For a second, I think he’s going to snap.
Instead, he turns sharply and walks back toward his weapons table.
I smirk.
Idiot.
“He gets hangry if he doesn’t eat on time,” Maverick says smoothly from beside me. “It would be wise to proceed.”
Clinton forces a laugh.
“I’ll try to move things along.”
I don’t look at Maverick.
But he just backed my cover without missing a beat.
I want to believe he did it to keep my cover…but he’s not wrong either.
I do get mean when I don’t eat.
My phone vibrates again.
Foster: Package located. Waiting for extraction time.
Clinton claps his hands once and finally gets on with it.
The first round fires clean. Recoil’s tight. Minimal jump. Ejection smooth.
I hate admitting it, but the weapons perform.
Clinton watches us like a salesman waiting for applause.
Skip’s name lights up next.
Skip: Pizza obtained. Bones found knives. Can’t pull him away. May need to sedate him.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Of course, Bones found knives.
Beside me, Maverick glances at his phone.
No smile.
No reaction.
He pockets it like it contained nothing more interesting than the weather.
I don’t know how he does that.
Even I almost cracked at Skip’s stupidity.
“I’m impressed,” Maverick says calmly. “The craftsmanship is acceptable. Once I see the long-range weapons perform, we’ll discuss numbers.”
Clinton beams. “Excellent. My boss will be pleased.”
“Where will we meet for the second half?” Maverick asks.
Clinton grins like he’s already secured the deal.
“I was thinking of bringing the live feed to your estate. That massive screen in your library would make quite the presentation.”
“Who will you be bringing?” Maverick asks mildly. “I do not allow unfamiliar men within my walls without being thoroughly investigated.”
“Oh, just me,” Clinton replies quickly. “My boss and I are the only ones who control distribution.”
“Surely your boss would want to attend,” I say lazily. “Seems like the Don should negotiate with the man in charge. Not the errand boy. Wouldn’t you agree?”
His jaw tightens…I hit a sore spot.
I don’t bother hiding the smirk.
“He’s busy,” Clinton says stiffly. “Martello plans to meet personally once terms are finalized.”
Maverick nods once.
“Six o’clock,” he says simply, turning toward the door without waiting for acknowledgment.
Meeting dismissed.
Clinton calls after us, something about logistics and confirmation.
Maverick doesn’t respond as Spike and I follow him out.
Once we’re inside the armored car and the doors seal shut, the calm mask slips from his face.
Not with panic…but concern.
“I’m worried about this demonstration,” he admits quietly.
“Surely his targets are just that,” I say. “Steel plates. Dummies. Not people.”
Maverick stares out the tinted window.
“I’ll have Stefano verify if there are any public events happening tonight,” he says. “And keep our men on Martello. The moment Clinton steps inside my estate… that is when Martello disappears.”
Spike’s already on his phone, relaying instructions.
I pull mine out and call Patch.
“She’s fine,” he says before I can even ask. “She woke long enough to drink broth. Gave me a glare while doing it. Took her meds. Went back to sleep.”
I exhale.
“Is that much sleeping normal?” I ask. “She was out earlier, too.”
“Tank,” Patch says dryly, “have you never been sick?”
I rub a hand down my face.
“It’s normal,” he continues. “Her body’s burning energy fighting that fever. Rest is part of the process.”
“How are her lungs?”
I hit speaker so Spike and Maverick can hear.
“A little raspy on the left,” Patch admits. “Some mild congestion, but her oxygen levels are solid. No crackles that concern me. I’m not even slightly worried. Which means you shouldn’t be either.”
“How the hell am I not supposed to worry?” I snap. “I’m three thousand miles away, and the woman I love is so sick she can’t keep her eyes open.”
Silence on the line for half a beat.
“Because I’m there,” Patch says evenly. “Because you trust me. Don’t you trust me, Tank?”
Fuck.
“Of course I do,” I say, jaw tight. “It’s not that. I’ve let her down so many damn times it feels like I’m doing it again.”
“I get it,” he replies. “But this isn’t you running from her.
This is you handling business, so it doesn’t follow you home.
Focus on ending it quickly…without rushing and screwing it up.
Her fever hasn’t spiked again. That’s good.
By the time you land back in California, she’ll likely be upright and bossing people around. ”
That actually helps.
“Thanks, brother,” I say quietly. “How’s everything else?”