Chapter 49
CHAPTER
FORTY-NINE
DARE
Leaning back in my chair, I stare at my computer.
I hate this shit. I hate paperwork and everything that goes with it.
It can die a slow fucking death as far as I’m concerned.
I wish I could pawn it off on someone else, but other people in the club have their own fucking bullshit to deal with, and they’d probably tell me to fuck myself if I tried to give any of them this on top of it.
Maybe I’ll just burn it all.
A knock on the door thankfully breaks my attention, not that I was truly focused on much of anything as I stared at the screen in front of me. Turning my head, I call out for whoever is on the other side to come in.
The door slides open, and I watch as Hippie walks in. “Did my inventory. I wanted to give you a copy,” he states before he slides a piece of paper across the desk to me.
Great.
More paperwork.
He walks over to the chair across from me and sinks down, placing his elbows on his thighs as I reach out for the paper and skim the document.
We’re somewhat stocked up but nowhere near where we need to be for a war. This will get us in the fight, but it’s definitely not going to win the war. Wincing at the sight of the list of supplies, I lift my gaze to meet my sergeant at arms’.
“We need some more shit,” I state.
He chuckles. “We do, I agree.”
I slide my tongue across my bottom lip, then clear my throat. “How do we procure that?”
“I got a couple contacts. It just depends on what you want and how much you want to spend.”
I don’t tell him, but if I’m being honest, I want it all, and I don’t want to spend a fucking penny. I know that’s not reality, but it doesn’t mean it’s not what I want. I think about the money we’ve been getting from the new jobs and the flat rate fees we’ve been collecting from Rustik.
“Loot and I have been saving what we’ve been earning over our monthly base from the jobs with the Russians. We have enough that we can spend to beef up our stock, and we have some big insurance payouts headed our way very shortly. It would put a dent in our savings, so I can put it up to a vote.”
Hippie presses his lips together, leaning back slightly. “You’re doing this because you’re planning something.”
“I am,” I confirm.
I’m not sure if I want to tell him exactly what I’m planning, but I’m not going to have a choice pretty soon, because it’s going to happen. I’ve already told him that I’m going to start a war. I just didn’t tell him how. Honestly, I’m not sure how exactly I’ll be doing it.
“I’m going to kill Chassis’s Russian.”
Maybe I should feel bad about saying that. Maybe I shouldn’t say it out loud. This wasn’t the deal. This was supposed to be the opposite of a deal, but as each minute passes, as each hour turns into another day, I can’t just let this shit go.
I can’t let him live.
I can’t have the fucking liability hanging around in the background, waiting to strike when I least expect it. I refuse to give him an ounce of power over us. Which means he needs to die, because I don’t think he’s scared of me, and I don’t think he’s going to pretend that Chassis never existed.
He didn’t get what he wanted from her, and I have no doubt he’s going to keep trying. Because I know that if I put that much time, work, and effort into trying to get something, I would not just stop.
“Make it look like an accident?” Hippie asks.
My lips twitch into a smirk. I hadn’t really thought about how he needed to die.
Just that I want him to die… slowly—painfully.
He hurt my woman. I can see the way it haunts her, the way he made her feel like a fucking fool.
He cannot be allowed to live. He played her, but I’m under no illusion that he’s done with her.
All the assurances in the world from Rustik will not make me ever feel at ease as long as Samuil is still breathing. And the way I feel might be at the expense of my club, which is why I’m hesitating—why I haven’t done it already.
I’m done waiting, though.
“I like the sound of that,” I murmur.
“We got a job coming up next week.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
He shrugs a shoulder, his gaze on mine as his lips curve up into a slow smile, a devious one. Hippie is our brother, all about peace, love, and fire. He’s definitely not the one who proposes violence as the first round of defense.
He dips his chin in a single nod, his gaze never leaving mine, then tilts his head to the side. His eyes search mine for a moment before he clears his throat and begins to speak. Next, he tells me about the building that is set to catch fire next week.
I already know about it—I signed the contract. But as he speaks, he adds that this fucker is going to die inside.
“It’s The Site. Five stories, a hundred and forty thousand square feet of office space, balcony view of the strip.
It’s an amazing building. It’s really a shame that it’s going to go up in flames, but the owners can’t make the payment.
They only have a quarter of the building occupied, and they haven’t been able to lock down the rest.”
“And where does Samuil fit into all this?” I ask.
His shoulder lifts in a single, small shrug. Then he chuckles. “That’s where I leave it up to you, brother. Whatever you need, you got my help.”
Well, I guess I better get brainstorming.