Chapter 25 – KADE
KADE
I lean against the hood of my Lambo, lighter flicking open and closed in that rhythm that's become second nature.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
The sound grounds me, keeps my hands busy so they don't reach for the gun tucked against my spine. Not yet. We're playing civil tonight.
At least until Carson gives me a reason not to.
Matt and Tony flank me, both armed, both looking bored as fuck. They've done this dance enough times to know how it usually goes—posturing, threats, someone ends up bleeding. Just another Tuesday in the life of the Kings.
"Boss." Matt shifts his weight, eyes scanning the empty warehouse lot. "You sure about this? Could be a setup."
"It's definitely a setup on our end," I remind him, taking a drag from my cigarette, watching the cherry burn bright in the darkness. "Question is whether Carson's stupid enough to actually try something."
Tony grunts. He's not much for words, which is why I like him. Gets the job done, doesn't ask questions, and when shit goes sideways, he knows which end of the gun to point at the problem.
The burn scar on my arm throbs like it always does when violence is about to happen. Sixth fucking sense. Like my body remembers what fire feels like and wants to make sure I don't forget.
As if I ever could.
Headlights cut through the darkness, two vehicles rolling up with amateur confidence. Carson climbs out of the first one, all swagger and dripping with gold chains that catch the dim light. His crew follows—six guys, maybe seven, all packing heat from the bulges under their jackets.
Only seven to our three? Carson's feeling cocky tonight.
"Kade." Carson grins, showing off a gold tooth he probably thinks makes him look tough. I just remember when he got drunk and talked shit about someone's mom, resulting in the original tooth being knocked out of his thick skull. "Heard you wanted to talk business."
"Heard you've been stealing from me." I flick ash onto the concrete, watching it scatter. "Figured we should clear the air before things get messy."
His grin doesn't falter, but I see those rusty gears turning in his head. He's trying to figure out how much I know, how much proof I have. Whether he can smooth-talk his way out of this or if he needs to shoot his way out. Otherwise, he would've come alone, not with a small army.
"Stealing's a strong word."
"Cute." I take another drag. "How much you skim off the last shipment? Twenty percent? Thirty?"
"Man, I don't know what you're talking about—"
"Bullshit." I drop the cigarette, grinding it out with my boot heel.
"You've been running product to the Southside for three months.
Twenty percent off every shipment, selling it for markup, pocketing the difference.
That's theft, Carson. And stealing from me specifically tends to end poorly.
You've been in this business long enough to know that. "
His expression shifts, the fake friendliness dropping away to reveal something much colder underneath. "You got any proof of that, boss?"
"Cyrus has enough digital forensics to bury you six ways to Sunday." I pull out my phone, show him the first page of transactions Cy compiled. "Every sale. Every buyer. Every fucking dollar you've stolen. Want me to keep going?"
The tension ratchets up another notch. Carson's crew shifts, hands drifting toward weapons. Matt and Tony mirror the movement, and suddenly we're one wrong word away from a bloodbath.
"So what?" Carson's jaw tightens. "You gonna kill me over some product? Over money you should've been payin' me in the first fucking place? Thought you were smarter than that, Stark."
"Smart enough to know when someone's testing me." I pocket the phone, my hand coming to rest on my belt buckle. Casual. Non-threatening. The gun at my back is half a second away if I need it. "Smart enough to know you didn't come here to negotiate. You came here to see if you could take me."
He doesn't deny it. Just grins wider, and that's when I see them.
More headlights. Coming from the entrance behind the loading bay, the one we didn't block because I'm apparently getting sloppy in my old age. Three more vehicles, packed with what looks like half the Southside crew.
Ten to our three.
Now the odds are getting interesting.
Funny that the immediate thought in my head is that Ellie always hated the number three.
"Surprise," Carson says, and his hand goes for his gun.
Everything happens at once.
Matt moves left, providing cover while Tony goes right. I'm already drawing, muscle memory taking over as each millisecond stretches. Carson's gun clears his waistband. My finger finds the trigger. The distance between us collapses to nothing.
The first shot goes wide—his, not mine—and then we're all firing.
Muzzle flashes light up the darkness like a fucked up strobe show. The sound makes my ears ring, echoing off the warehouse walls. I drop behind the Lambo, using it and the shipping container behind for cover even though bullets are punching through the door like it's made of tinfoil.
Fuck.
That's going to be expensive. I loved that car. Had grand plans to fuck Ellie on the hood and everything.
Tony takes one in the shoulder, going down hard. Matt is still returning fire, but we're outnumbered and outgunned. Should have suspected that Carson was smarter than the average snow dealer and wouldn't walk into this alone.
The asshole's crew is spreading out, flanking us, and I realize with crystal clarity that I have royally fucked up.
Another bullet punches through the windshield, webbing the safety glass. I fire blind around the corner, hear someone scream, but there's too many of them. Too much firepower.
This is how I die.
Shot to death in a dock warehouse over stolen product, and Ellie's going to hear about it on the news if the guys don't find out first. Probably won't even give a shit. Hell, she'll probably throw a fucking party that the psycho who collared and leashed her is finally dead.
The thought makes me angrier than the bullet that grazes my arm.
I pop up, aim, and drop one of Carson's guys with a headshot. But two more appear to take his place, and they're getting closer.
Damn, we miscalculated bad. This is a full-blown fucking coup.
Matt is down now too, clutching his leg and cursing in Spanish. Just me left standing, and my clip's running low.
This is it.
I grab another ammo clip, hands steady even though my heart's trying to punch through my ribcage. If I'm going out, I'm taking as many of these fuckers with me as possible. Starting with Carson and his smug fucking face.
That's when I hear it.
The roar of a motorcycle engine, getting louder, closer. Too fast for the confined area.
Then Tank explodes into view.
He's not even trying to be subtle. Just guns the bike straight at Carson's crew, using it like a battering ram. Two guys go flying, bones cracking as several hundred pounds of steel and rage collide with flesh.
Tank doesn't slow down, just ditches the bike mid-momentum and rolls, coming up with a gun in each hand.
The change in odds is immediate.
Tank moves like death incarnate, all that muscle and training put to use. He's not aiming for center mass like they teach in the movies. He's going for headshots, double-taps, making sure each target stays down.
Carson's crew scrambles, suddenly realizing they're not fighting two wounded men and one stubborn asshole anymore. They're fighting the Rook. The silent killer.
The monster even other monsters are afraid of.
I use the distraction to drop three more, my bullets finding good, loving homes in chests and throats.
One of Carson's guys gets brave. Stupid brave. He rushes Tank from behind while my brother's reloading, tackles him around the waist. They go down in a tangle of limbs, and the guy's hand scrabbles at Tank's face, trying to gouge his eyes, anything to get an advantage.
His fingers catch the edge of Tank's bandana.
I see it happening in slow motion. The fabric tearing, coming loose, sliding down my brother's face like a curtain being ripped away.
Fuck.
I don't look. I don't need to. I've known what's under that bandana since we were kids. It doesn't register for me anymore. To me, it's just Tank's face.
To everyone else, it's a nightmare.
"What the fuck—" The guy closest to Tank—the one who tackled him—scrambles backward so fast he trips over a body. His voice pitches up as a dark stain spreads across the front of his jeans. He's pissing himself. "WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT THING?"
Tank's shoulders curl inward and his hands fly up to cover his face. His whole massive frame tries to shrink, to disappear. He can take bullets without stopping, shatter skulls and bones with his bare hands.
But this—assholes looking at him like he's not even human—this is what breaks him. This is the rare-as-fuck freeze response born from getting his ass beat every time someone saw his face from age six on.
Every. Fucking. Time.
I take advantage of the dumbasses' shock and start putting bullets in heads, starting with the asshole that pissed himself.
The pop of bullets from the brief firefight that breaks out jars Tank out of his trance, and by the time I reach him, he's tied his bandana back on and is caving in heads with his bare hands. He's shaking too bad to aim straight.
When I join him and he turns to face me, his eyes are pitch black and dead above the edge of his bandana. His hands come up, signs quick and clipped. Carson. Now.
I nod once, and we move.
The rest of Carson's crew has figured out they're fucked. Half of them are already dead, the other half trying to retreat to their vehicles. We pick off the stragglers, working our way to Carson.
He tries to run, abandoning his crew like the coward he is. Tank catches him before he makes it five feet, massive hand wrapping around his throat and lifting him off the ground like he weighs nothing.
The struggling is pathetic. Carson claws at Tank's wrist, feet kicking uselessly in the air, and I can see the moment he realizes he's going to die here.
"Please," he gurgles. "I'll give it back. All of it. Please—"
Tank's hand closes tighter, and I know what's coming.
The wet crack of a neck snapping echoes across the dock.
Then silence.
I look around, taking in the carnage. My precious bullet-riddled Lambo.
Bodies everywhere. The sour smell of gunpowder mixing with the copper smell of fresh blood and the brine of the ocean.
Matt is still alive, clutching his leg but conscious.
Tony's shoulder is bleeding but he's already on his phone, probably calling for cleanup.
And Tank stands in the center of it all, Carson's corpse at his feet, his chest heaving beneath that black tactical vest. The torn bandana is spotted with blood—not his—the black fabric turned darker.
"Didn't think you gave a shit," I say, my voice raw from the smoke and chaos. The adrenaline's wearing off, leaving behind the shakes and the realization of how close I came to dying.
Tank's hands move, sharp and angry. Still my brother. Even if you're a fucking idiot.
"Yeah, well." I reload my gun with hands that won't stop shaking. "You've been AWOL lately. Wasn't sure. But I guess that's more about her than me."
His whole body goes rigid, and for a second I think he might actually punch me right after saving my ass. His hands curl into fists, and those dark eyes burn with something that might be rage or hurt or both.
Then he signs, slower this time. More deliberate. Not avoiding her. Avoiding THIS.
He gestures between us, at the blood and the bodies, at his entire self.
The words hit harder than I want to admit. Because he's right. Tank's always been right about the shit that matters. He's not avoiding Ellie because he hates her. He's avoiding her because he loves her too much to let her see what he's turned into.
What we've all turned into.
I holster my gun, suddenly exhausted. "She's already seen plenty. Watched me execute Marco. Probably thinks we're all psychopaths now."
His eyes narrow to pinpricks. You killed someone in front of her?
Might die on this dock, after all.
"He insulted her," I say, holding my hands up in defense. "What was I supposed to do, let him get away with it?"
He actually fucking snarls, and takes a trudging step toward me. I manage not to flinch, but he circles by at the last moment and starts dragging a corpse's body toward the water.
"Right. Let's clean this mess up," I mutter, deciding the crew will have enough to deal with between all the blood and scrap metal that used to pass for cars.
Tank ignores me and we work in silence. Tony and Matt know better than to say shit when Tank's in one of his moods.
"Hey, man, you're bleeding," Matt remarks from where he's holding pressure on the makeshift tourniquet around his leg.
I look down at myself and sure enough, there's a huge red spot soaking through my jacket where the bullet grazed my left arm. "Just a graze," I say with a shrug, favoring my right side as I drag another body over to the edge of the dock.
The bastard who shot me, I realize. Look at that. Fate and shit. I drive the steel toe of my boot into his ribs and roll him into the water with a big plunk.
The cleanup crew will be here in twenty minutes. The bodies will sink into the river by dawn. Carson's crew will be written off as casualties of the Southside war we're about to start.
And the one back home is just beginning.