Chapter Seventeen #4
“We’re good,” Patch chuckles. “Bree’s teaching Asher how to braid hair. Asher’s teaching her motorcycle parts.”
“That’s my boy,” Spike laughs from beside me. “We should be in the air sometime tomorrow if this goes clean.”
“Good,” Patch says. “I’ll call if anything changes. Stay sharp.”
The line goes dead.
I sit back against the seat, staring at nothing.
Three thousand miles.
Too damn far.
“We have six hours to kill,” Maverick says. “Who wants to come with me to check on my businesses and threaten a few people for pissing me off?”
What I want is to get this shit over with so I can go home and become a domesticated house husband.
But threatening people sounds fun, too.
“When you say threaten?”
“I mean, physically,” he smiles. “And with one person in particular, very fucking painfully.”
“I’m in,” I say. “But, first…pizza.”
***
Turns out, being the Don’s muscle?
Kinda fun.
There’s something satisfying about standing two steps behind a man who runs half the Eastern seaboard and knowing if anyone twitches wrong, you’re the one who gets to break them.
“I don’t know how you’re still walking after the amount of street pizza you inhaled,” Maverick says as we move down the corridor toward the library. “I had your leftovers wrapped and stored in the freezer.”
“Appreciate it,” I reply, rubbing my stomach. “I’m taking it home. The girls, Eli, the kids…none of them have had real New York pizza. That cardboard stuff we’ve got back west doesn’t count.”
“You are aware,” Maverick says dryly, “that I have chefs who trained in Naples back home. They can make you anything you wish.”
“Yeah,” I shrug. “Still not the same.”
He shakes his head, amused.
“Our guest has arrived, Don,” Stefano says as he steps from the shadows near the archway.
Maverick doesn’t break stride.
“Thank you, Stefano,” he replies. “Once he’s inside the library, have two guards stationed outside the doors. If he slips past us, I don’t want him making a run for the front entrance.”
A faint smirk touches his mouth.
“Not that he would get far,” he adds. “But I would rather he not damage anything expensive.”
“It’ll be done,” Stefano says with a nod. “I’ll monitor from the security room.”
He disappears down the hall, and the door to the library closes behind us.
“I’m giving the order for the men to go ahead and capture Martello,” Spike says quietly. “You want him brought here?”
“Yes,” Maverick replies. “We’ll question him and Clinton together.”
“Gentlemen,” Clinton announces brightly, stepping through the doors like he’s hosting a dinner party. “Have I got a surprise for you. I just need access to your WiFi so I can screen share my phone to your television.”
A guard steps forward immediately, taking Clinton’s phone. He checks it and hands it back once it’s connected.
Clinton rubs his hands together.
“The show is about to start,” he says, clapping once. “Thought a gift would be a nice way to kick off our new partnership.”
“This is a business arrangement,” Maverick corrects smoothly. “Not a partnership.”
Clinton shrugs. “Same difference.”
The massive screen at the front of the room flickers as it attempts to connect.
“Tell me again,” Maverick says evenly, eyes never leaving Clinton, “why this demonstration could not be held in person.”
“Too far away,” Clinton says casually. “And it’s a surprise.”
The screen glitches a few times before a sound comes through.
“Testing,” a voice crackles through the speakers. “Can you hear us?”
“We can,” Clinton calls back cheerfully. “And now we see you.”
The feed stabilizes, and a man in full camouflage stares into the camera mounted on someone else’s helmet.
But we’re not seeing him.
We’re seeing the perspective of the shooter behind him.
“Is everything in place?” Clinton asks.
“Just about,” the voice replies. “Waiting on David’s cam.”
“Got it,” another voice says. “Feed should be coming through.”
The screen splits into four angles. Two from the men, the other two, the viewpoints from their sniper scopes.
“Alright, boys,” Clinton says, grin widening. “Let’s get this party started.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are they?” Spike mutters, leaning forward.
The men on the screen turn…and my world tilts.
My heart stops.
Not metaphorically.
Not dramatically.
It…fucking…stops.
Because I know that skyline. I know that tree line. I know that expanse of desert. The angle shifts slightly, and I see it.
The Iron Shadows compound.
Our gate.
Our walls.
My home…Abigail.
Clinton laughs.
“We’re getting your revenge against those desert bikers. They hurt your men, so we’ll do the same to theirs.”
The camo-clad shooter kneels, and I watch as he adjusts his scope.
The crosshairs lift.
They’re aiming right at our roofline.
My pulse slams back into my body so violently, I see red at the edges of my vision.
“Wind’s steady,” one of them mutters. “Target one in sight.”
Target one is one of our snipers, Paul.
A father. A husband. And a good fucking man.
It takes everything I have to hold myself still as Maverick glances our way.
Clinton doesn’t notice.
He’s too busy smiling at the screen.
“Watch,” he says proudly.
Maverick takes a step forward. His clenched fists the only sign of his emotions.
“Clinton,” he says quietly.
The man keeps watching the feed.
“Yeah?”
“Call them off.”
Clinton blinks.
“Why? Don’t you want your revenge?”
On the screen, the crosshairs settle. Perfectly centered on my friend’s head. Pulling out my phone, I send a quick message to Paul.
GET DOWN. SNIPER.
“Men, can you hear me?” Maverick says, voice sharp now. No warmth. No civility.
“Uh…yeah?” one of them answers through the feed.
“I am ordering you to stand down,” Maverick says. “I repeat. Stand down. Do not fire those weapons.”
“Boss?” David asks uncertainly.
“Ignore him,” Clinton snaps. “What the hell are you doing? These are the men responsible for your dead and injured. We can take half of them out before they know what’s happening.”
“Clint?” David says. “What are your orders?”
I watch the screen through the sniper scope camera as Paul pulls out his phone and looks down.
“Do your fucking job,” Clinton barks. “Call me when it’s finished.”
Paul’s eyes widen, and the feed cuts.
But not before the first shot cracks through the speakers.
And I lose my fucking mind.
All self-control gone…I move.
Clinton barely has time to turn before I slam into him. The chair goes flying. He hits the floor hard, the air exploding out of his lungs.
Maverick is on him a second later…brutal in a way I’ve never seen from him before.
His fist connects with Clinton’s jaw once. Twice. A third time, that sounds like bone cracking.
“You dare,” Maverick growls, voice unrecognizable now, “use my name to slaughter people?”
Clinton tries to scramble away, but I grab him by the collar and drive him face-first into the marble.
Blood splatters across the floor.
Spike is on his phone, voice hard as he blasts out the warning. It’s not a call, but a voice-activated warning system that will be sent to everyone.
“Code black! Code black! All positions bunker now! Snipers, return fire. Get inside the walls!”
My phone vibrates, but I know it’s Spike’s warning.
“Take him,” Maverick snaps.
Two guards rush forward. I shove Clinton into their grip so hard he nearly drops.
“Basement,” Maverick orders coldly. “Alive.”
Clinton spits blood. “You’re Shadows? I knew there was something off about you two. You’re working with these killers?”
“Take him,” Maverick repeats.
The guards drag Clinton out as Maverick snatches the man's phone from the desk and dials back immediately.
No answer.
He dials again.
Nothing.
He looks up at a camera in the corner of the room.
“Have the jet ready,” he says too fucking calmly for the situation. “Engines on. We leave in five minutes.”
“Yes, Don,” Stefano’s voice comes through a speaker.
The library doors burst open, and Skip rushes in first, breathing hard, a limp Martello thrown over his shoulder like a sack of trash. Bones follows, Foster right behind him.
“Why the hell is our SOS going off?” Skip demands.
“They’re firing on the compound,” Spike says, his voice flat. His wife and son are in the middle of that war zone right now. His sister…my woman. Every single precious soul we swore to protect is a target inside the walls we promised would protect them.
Skip freezes, then drops Martello.
The unconscious man hits the floor with a sickening thud.
“Handle him,” Bones tells the nearest guards. His voice is ice.
“Put him with Clinton,” Maverick says. “Let’s go, brothers. The jet’s ready.”
Nobody argues.
We move fast.
Down the corridor…Out the doors…Into the armored vehicle.
The drive to the private runway feels like it takes a lifetime and a heartbeat all at once.
I’m calling everyone.
Crusher…Max…Patch…Abigail…Mike…Riley…Sunny…Eli…Lila.
“No one’s fucking answering,” Spike mutters, looking down at his phone.
Bones, Foster, and Skip are all doing the same.
Five hours.
That’s how long it’s going to take us to get back.
“The twins are leading a team and are on their way to the compound,” Maverick says. “They have a couple of doctors with them.”
Just in case.
He doesn’t say it…but we all hear it.
It’ll take them half an hour to get to the compound from Maverick’s estate.
So much can happen in thirty minutes.
“Why the hell have we not put a landline down in the bunker?” Foster asks. “Stupid move.”
“Wouldn’t matter if they’re all dead,” Skip says, clearly spiraling. “Come on, pretty boy. Answer the damn phone.”
“Once the bunker doors are sealed, their cell reception will be cut off,” Foster says. “Them not answering our calls isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”
The jet hums like a giant metal coffin.
No one’s talking.
No one’s sleeping.
Six grown men who have faced gunfire, cartels, and torture rooms, and every single one of us is staring at our phones like they might suddenly bring our family safely on board.