43. Tyke
43
TYKE
I'll never forget when our biology teacher brought a dead owl to school. The old guy had found it in his garden and figured the tiny corpse would be a great learning opportunity for his middle-high students. That cold, stiff bird lay on a stainless tray at the front of the classroom half the day while he rotated it through his three classes. By the time it came around to us, the fucking thing stank—my first encounter with the odor of death. Mottled brown feathers with a streak of red where a cat had got it, and these tiny matte black, soulless eyes.
I stare into the same goddamn eyes now; only it ain't a dead bird on my tutor's table—it's Terry's cleaner. His enforcer, lackey, hitman, whatever you want to call him.
It’s Ronan I face on the concrete paver porch, no less than two guns trained on me from somewhere amongst the trees.
I didn't come here expecting anonymity; sure as fuck knew it'd be no secret when I brought my bike through the valley. Asshole would have heard me coming ten whole minutes before I turned up his mountain road. But I also expected a bit of a fight when I got here. Not this terse hospitality as I stare at a man who could kill me as quickly as he could step aside to let me in.
I hate being disappointed.
“How’s your little girl?” Ronan asks in his carefree Irish accent—the start of his words clipped, the vowels rounded.
I regard the man before me, casually dressed in dark slacks and a black Henley beneath a fine-knit sweater the same color. His hands are slung in his pockets, and the wrinkle where his pants fold atop his heavy boots gives off an air of disregard. But I know he's anything but careless as he studies me, waiting for my answer.
“She’s recovering’,” I clip. “How’s your master?”
Ronan bristles at the slight. “My employer is enjoying breakfast at present.” He drops his gaze the length of me. “Can I pass on a message?”
"Eh." I glance down the stone chip driveway, where two blacked-out SUVs sit on the hillside in a leveled-out parking bay. "I'd rather pass it on myself." Ronan's jaw firms. I smirk. "How many bites you got left to feed him?"
The career killer sighs, eyes closing briefly. “I don’t have beef with you, Tyke. Now’s not the day to start any.”
“That so?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Name one time I did anything that affected you personally.” His accent makes the word anything come out sounding like any ting .
I work my jaw side-to-side and refuse to break eye contact. Fuck . I can’t pick one. Sure, he’s done shit that’s caused trouble for us as a flow-on, but he’s never directly hurt or killed any of our own.
I did that.
“Come in,” he relents. “Park yer ass on the seat there, and I’ll go see if he’s in the mood for a slinging match.”
The rattle of my buckles echoes off the high vaulted ceiling and polished floor. I assess the space, check the vantage points, and find security detail posted on the mezzanine walkway overhead. Another man steps into the foyer from a small room on our right, his hands linked before him as he locks me in his stoic glare.
“Mornin’.” I give him a quick once over, then check out my assigned seating: an upholstered wooden bench tucked to the right of the doors. Pass. Spend half my life on a leather seat; figure it's a good opportunity to stretch the legs.
Ronan weaves through the cavernous living area, vanishing through a glass side door to the wooden deck beyond. Panoramic views of the valley stretch as far as the eye can see, the winter sky a rich blue that belies the fucking frigid wind out there.
I tug my phone out, note the heavy beside me twitch as I do, and hold the device up for him to see. He lifts his chin the slightest fraction—permission if ever I saw it—and allows me to carry on about my business.
Sure enough, there are six messages and two calls to ignore a little while longer.
I shunt the damn thing back in my left rear pocket and adjust my waistband. Goddamn jeans feel weird without the weight of my weapon, but I'd be a fool if I'd expected to get this far without a pat down. Nope. My handgun is secure back at the roadside, with my keys in the lockable box.
My only lifeline in this place is a pissed-off oldest son stationed two clicks back.
Could have throttled Kane when I saw him tail me up the highway. Thought about kicking him off his fucking bike when he caught up to me at the hairpin intersection that starts Terry's road. But if he's the only one who saw me leave with enough time to follow, I'll take it. Fuck knows—I might need him to call in the truck for my body yet.
The day’s just getting started.
“You’re in luck,” Ronan declares as he re-enters the heart of the home. “He’s in the right state of mind to play.”
My heart rate kicks up a notch. This is it. We can talk, but I'm not here for that. Not today. Nope. Today, I don't leave this fucking house until only one of us is left breathing.
God willing, it’s me.
Ronan leads the way with a jerk of his head, the modern-day golem moving to stand in the center of the small foyer after I begin to move.
We pass through the sitting room, spatially adorned with cushiony furniture, skim the edges of a stone fireplace stacked on either side with firewood cut to a particular set of dimensions, and duck through the narrow door onto the eerily quiet deck. The whole house has a rustic yet clean log cabin vibe—an interesting choice for a man born in New England and raised equally in New Mexico and Portugal before he settled here as an adult.
We never knew much about Terry's parents growing up other than they were near-mythical creatures the town folk struggled to believe existed because of the rarity of their appearance on the streets. The only solid fact I have is that his father globe-trotted due to business, and his mother trailed behind, forced to choose between maintaining a secure future at her husband's side or reveling in motherhood, wondering if the next mistress would be the one to spell the end of her marriage.
Her life.
Guess the fucker and I ain’t so different after all.
Ronan crosses the sun-bleached timber, down a few steps onto a second level that wraps around the hillside beneath us, and heads for the table set center of the massive, circular corner. Terry resides with his back to us—a clear power-play—one leg crossed over the other as he sips on a coffee. He wears denim jeans in a medium wash and a pale orange, almost peach, Polo shirt beneath a dark gray chunky knit cardigan. A strange combination accented by his bare feet.
It always amuses me when people first hear about the guy. They assume he'd be the stereotypical dark-haired Adonis, tall and intimidating in his crisply pressed suit while he chugs a cigar in your face. The kind of stereotype that belongs in Marco’s mafia-born world. Yet he’s not.
Terry looks more at home in a tech store, discussing CPU capability and graphics card options.
The man doesn’t have a spot of ink on his skin.
The first reason I don’t trust him.
"I'd offer you a drink," Terry exclaims, raising his pottered mug. "But I feel you won't be here that long."
I pause at the top of the connecting steps and widen my stance. “All depends on what you got to say.”
Ronan positions himself to the right of the table, near the capped railing. He's flanked by two more stone-faced wannabe heroes with military-style fatigues. I scan the valley beyond and fail to find sign of a sniper on the adjacent hill. But then again, if I could see the fucker, he wouldn't be any good at his job.
“Sit.” Terry extends a leg and pushes a timber-frame seat out with his toes.
The wide feet screech on the wooden decking, a klaxon amongst the otherwise serene setting.
I walk to the table's far side, pausing at the railing to set my hands atop. I ain't about to follow his fucking instructions. Won't do what he tells me like the good little dog he believes me to be.
Nope. Fucker can have my back, same as he gives me.
“I’m sure you know about Fox’s deal with the Devil’s Breed, am I right?”
Terry takes a moment to answer. “Yes.”
“That your orchestration?”
He sighs. “Let’s call it a happy consequence.”
“Ain’t nothing you do based on consequence.” I stare at the floor to my left, set the asshole in my periphery. “How long we going to do this dance?”
“How long do you plan to avoid the inevitable?” His tone holds an edge to it I don’t like.
I lift my chin and study the guard to Terry's left. The man's square jaw tics, yet his eyesight stays trained over his boss's head. He pays careful attention but doesn't seem to be at the point of calculations, which means one of two things: either Terry doesn't plan homicide yet, or the security feels comfortable enough to stand down because their boss has a weapon within reach.
Either option is as treacherous as the other. Only one holds immediate consequences.
I turn slowly and shift my gaze to the devil in disguise.
Terry lifts his mug to his lips, taking a slow sip as he regards me over the rim. His fucking eyes crinkle at the corners, his foot making lazy circles in the air.
Cunt enjoys this far too much.
Coward never leaves his property for the same reason.
He feels brave here, in his veritable fortress. Protected. Ballsy.
Put the man out on the road, and he'd crumple faster than a wet drive-thru napkin.
“How much it costin’ you?” I ask, eyes narrowed as I lift my chin. “To bribe the local PD to stay away from your properties?”
"More than you'd have left to play with each week." He sets the cup down, fidgeting with its position until it’s perfectly aligned with the handle pointing east. “Jealous?”
“Call me wowed by a magician’s tricks,” I say. “You believe a few carefully placed bills will keep them off your private road? Forever?”
"Of course not."
“So, what’s the end game? How you goin’ to keep that goddamn waste of resources profitable when they keep hiking the fee to stay silent year after year?”
"They won't feel inclined to push my generosity when their family members start vanishing." He straightens his collar as he says this, fussing with his goddamn clothes like it's a throwaway concern. "Why the curiosity, Tyke? Do you need reassurances before you offload that troublesome lot of yours?" He pins me with his steely gaze.
My upper lip twitches as I stare dead into the eyes he gifted his son. They have the same crisp intent, the same skittish disposition, and a thousand reasons not to trust him within the inky flecks of his irises.
“You fucked up when you took my goddamn daughter.” I struggle to keep my voice level as I approach the table. “You fuckin’ ended this between us when you took my old lady.” I grip the back of the seat he offered with white knuckles.
"You seem upset, darling." He utters the insult with no shortage of disrespect. "Perhaps you should find somewhere to lie down—" His eyes narrow. "—and die like the old dog you are."
“Feelin’ more alive than I have in a long time.” I shunt the chair under the table. The back smacks the rim, rattling his empty mug. "Let's take a walk." I nod toward the overpaid accessories on either side of him. "Without the jewelry.”
Terry’s gaze flits to Ronan, and he nods—once.
The two security detail fall back, filing to the deck's upper level and inside one after the other. Ronan shuts the doors behind them and returns to our party of two. "After you, gentlemen."
I fold my arms, tracking Terry as he rises from the table. My head swims—the sudden rush of adrenalin is too much for my already wired system.
The tick of the clock echoes louder in my mind.
Fate’s hand moves toward the hour.
Judgement day has arrived.