CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AXEL
“Maddox and Jax are with me. You two follow,” I say to Ryker and Cash as we near the one-road town.
A throaty gurgle of annoyance bubbles up from Cash. “Uh, mind explaining that reasoning?”
“Because I’m prettier,” Maddox quips.
Cash howls as if that’s the most absurd utterance he’s ever heard—and not because being good-looking has nothing to do with a stakeout. “The fuck? You’re uglier than the east end of a horse headed west.”
“Says the guy who looks like a bulldog after chewing on a beehive,” Maddox snipes. “Both Bernards shame you.”
Jax does some honky-tonk accent that barely sounds like English or maybe English with a mouthful of straw. “That right there”—he flips his index finger between the two pretty morons with a considering pause—“looks like your family tree is a daggum circle.”
Ryker is undone, beyond useless as a fellow adult, aside from his ability to steer the SUV into an adequate spot for us to wait. Amid his laughter, he hitches a shoulder to my side-eye and adds, “When in the sticks.”
We are in the middle of nowhere. Not Montana or Wyoming. Wisconsin. Flat as far as the eye can see.
Cataloging our surroundings—cinder block and dust and tattered wood beneath an inky blanket of the brightest stars—I sigh. “Not even that excuses this dumbass conversation while stalking someone.”
They are undeterred, the stupid, insulting colloquialisms flying in all directions until I feel my temples attempting to choke their nonsense out of my brain.
So, as we scan the area that Gage supplied—the sight of an occasional poker game our host frequents beneath a hardware store—I glare at the three men in the back seat. “I’m feeling a bit trigger happy, so even though we’re parked, this would be one of those if-I-have-to-pull-this-car-over moments.”
“He’ll tan our hides,” Jax provides, so straightlaced that it would be easy to assume he was simply providing context. The slight twang aside.
“It’s always the kids who pay the price,” Maddox laments in a dejected tone. “Our wicked stepmommy can feed poisonous apples to our friends, but we have a colorful discussion, and Papa threatens us.”
For the love of fuck.
If he starts referring to Zara as his stepmom, the others will follow, and I’ll blow a gasket. It’s for this reason that I say nothing, even as they all giggle like little girls. Maddox is similar to a bat—at the slightest movement, he’ll sense the weakness and rouse the others.
“Why doesn’t Papa Axe love us anymore, Ryker?” Cash whines, sensing me squirm.
Thankfully, there is movement in the shop, so I lift my hand to quiet them. It’s go time.
Gage gave us the rundown, but I’m guessing everything about how we approach these situations differs from his crew. Their military background gives them an edge on everyone.
My brothers and I don’t have that type of training, but we move as one entity nonetheless.
Maddox and Jax slide out of the back as I step onto the pavement.
We’re all in various styles of black suits, and the teasing cadence that guided us here has morphed to a grave and flinty silent stratagem.
Maddox has two knives in hand, of course, while Jax and I have our pistols—HK45s with silencers—tucked beneath our suit jackets.
We walk the block to our destination, skirting a dilapidated fence that should call it quits and sticking to the shadows of buildings that probably wilt in the sunlight.
It occurs to me that this is where Zara thrives—melting into the umbra to be the silhouette of reprisal.
I am no less a dealer of darkness, but I do it beneath a never-dimming spotlight.
She’d probably hate that. Or maybe the shadows are simply all she knows.
The chill of night has our breath panting out in white puffs, but that is the only cold that registers. My body is on fire. An itch that’s been eating at me for nearly a week will finally be scratched. And every pore is bursting with fury and adrenaline.
We stall about twenty feet from our target’s Jeep, waiting out of sight, not far from a dumpster.
The stench of trash doesn’t even bother me because I can taste him.
He’ll likely sense us, so this could go several ways.
But even as I tick those off in my mind, I’m surprised that he leisurely carries on a conversation with another fella as they strut to their cars.
His buddy turns down a side alley as our guy hits the unlock button on his key fob and lowers himself to the driver’s seat seconds later.
Before his door is shut, all three of us join him. My brothers take the back while I ride shotgun. Maddox slings his arm over the seat, his Karambit knife fringing the guy’s throat like a claw.
He doesn’t startle the way most would. Even out of the game for a decade, he is unfazed.
“Sorry about the cold.” He drops his keys in the cupholder, presses the ignition button, and tinkers with the heat, so hospitable to his passengers. “I’ve been waiting for you to arrive—for a goddamn decade. But I stopped leaving my doors unlocked a few years ago.”
“You’ve been waiting for me to arrive?” I question, realizing he doesn’t recognize me.
He should. Keller utilized La Lune Noire services on occasion. He wasn’t a member who frequented often—at least not after I took over. But I’m guessing that’s because he was far more involved with Stone Gallagher’s camp.
He leers at me for a moment, until recognition dawns on him. “This is a surprise. You found me first, huh?”
I’m not sure what to make of this reaction, so I simply motion to the gearshift with my gun. “Let’s go.”
His gaze flits to the rearview mirror as he backs out of the spot. “Where to?”
“The woods a half mile east from your house,” I supply, wondering if he’s got another move.
His house is outfitted to combat any takedown. If nothing else, he could blow the whole town to the seventh circle of hell. Which is why I believed we were in for a fight. This resignation is perplexing.
He smirks as he pulls onto the road. “Keeping it old school is a nice touch.”
“Well,” I drone, hating him more by the minute because he’s truly lived without much stress, all because Zara provided the trampoline to bounce him here, “I am in a nice mood.”
“You seem a little pissed to me.” A cocky chuckle emanates from him, as if he has the upper hand. “You’d think locating someone after a decade would be gratifying, but I’m not picking up on that.”
My focus drifts briefly to Maddox and Jax, all of us clutching the same realization.
Keller was expecting someone else. He’s been looking over his shoulder for ten years because once you’re an assassin, freedom is never yours, no matter how you buy your way out.
There is always the possibility of a penance for your crimes or a new contract shoved down your throat. He’s grateful he had the decade.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I warn as he drives out of town, headlights peering into the dark flatland, with the only other light source from Ryker and Cash behind us. “We only began looking for you a few days ago. Why do you think I’m here?”
“Hunted down by the Noires?” He taps the steering wheel with a pondering hum. “I’m guessing you’re in bed with Kratos now. What other reason would you have?”
Kratos. I’ve heard that name a handful of times in the last ten or fifteen years. It’s an organization from overseas that only seems to emerge in whispers.
“Kratos, yes,” I affirm. “The last job you did.”
His shoulders stiffen—not necessarily because that’s wrong, but because he detected something tenuous, as assassins do, and he realizes something’s off. “Jesus. Why the fuck are you here then?”
That’s the first sign of distress, as if dying for Kratos is acceptable, but otherwise he’s pissed.
“Kratos is Greek, meaning power or dominion. A lot of English words are derived from it,” Jax mutters mindlessly from the back.
Maddox chuckles. “Mercy is fucking rubbing off on you.”
“Was the blue-haired psycho a spelling bee champion?” Keller asks dryly.
Without negating his original assumption or paying heed to the unnecessary sidebar, I keep it simple. “I am here because of the way you handled your last job.”
“You’re with the other guys then?” He huffs, taking a right turn that will lead us to the vast woods not far from his home. “I fucking paid up, man. A deal is a deal, and there was no statute on that shit. You got everything you asked for—mission complete and a girl to boot.”
“Ding. Ding. Ding,” Maddox chimes from the back, his knife still poised to strike but providing a bit more breathing room.
“She’s why we’re here,” Jax summarizes with a lazy wave of his pistol, his other arm stretched across the rim of the back seat. His lackadaisical approach adds to his sinister air. It’s evident there’s no telling what he might do. Hence the blue-haired-psycho moniker.
Keller scoffs, tracking all three of us and the SUV following, which only enhances his indignation. “All this for the girl?”
“Yes. The girl,” I deadpan. “That’s all she was then anyway.”
“I’m playing a lot of catch-up tonight, but just to clarify. She fucked up? Or you’re fucking her?” He side-eyes me, but when my face betrays nothing, he goes on, “That’s not on me. There is no return on the merchandise after ten goddamn years. You even got to test-drive the goods. Bullshit.”
We cruise along in silence for a few more minutes while I weed through what he’s already offered.
There’s something not adding up, but I don’t want to pose my questions until I’m more certain.
Quietude can often agitate a subject in interrogation, so the stillness before his imminent death is likely unnerving Keller.
“Up here,” I instruct, gesturing to a pull-off we planned to utilize.