Chapter 45 Emory
FORTY-FIVE
EMORY
Emory arrived in the parlor on the wrong side of midnight.
The men quieted as he slid shut the pocket door.
Liam stood at the fireplace where flames crackled and sufficed as comfort.
The rest opted for the warmth of whiskey.
A bottle traveled the circle that included Thomas emptied of apologies and Disco sullenly avoiding Emory’s stare.
Jack, Corey, Pete, and Zulu perched throughout the room.
In an unintended homage to the shadow walk, Jack stepped aside to let Emory into the circle and waited for him to join. It wasn’t enough that Emory had left Amelia to come in here. They needed him back in the fold and committed to the brotherhood.
What more do they want from me? Everything, it seemed.
Emory stepped forward, the circle complete. Like those desert nights gathered around sacred flames, something powerful existed there but so too did the sinister and unspoken.
“What happened?” he asked.
The men exchanged ashen-faced glances that entreated someone else to speak. Jack finally did.
“Three street soldiers from Disco’s crew were dumped outside our headquarters in Vegas. They were missing hands. Their cocks were cut off and stuffed in their mouths.”
Emory drew a breath and closed his eyes, but the vision in the dark was no less vivid. The Velascos had always been violently inventive. Ivan would sharpen that flair, give it purpose and place, and dead bodies would pile up, brutalized in ways that’d sour the stomach and boggle the mind.
“War’s here,” Corey remarked to no one in particular, perhaps just himself, but for the benefit of the room too.
The burden of leadership landed at Emory’s feet.
He’d shoulder that responsibility if nothing more than for the expectant and faintly fearful eyes peering at him, battle weary though it was just the beginning.
The road map of past precedence ended, and they would travel off the page. The only way out is through.
“Enough is enough,” Emory said with scant composure and his heart pounding in his ears. “I won’t tolerate our own being ripped to pieces and dumped on our doorstep. If the Velascos want brutality, they’ll get it in spades. We will define a whole new meaning for them.”
“There’s more,” Corey said and turned to Disco. “Give him the ground truth.”
Disco cleared his throat and pinned his eyes to the floor. “Some captains think our organization won’t survive a war and maybe it’s better to break off now.”
Emory drew a deep breath. “How many?”
“Five that I know of. Eli and Scotty are the most vocal, but Marcus, Sal, and Nate share the sentiment.”
Disco shook his head as if it were a crying shame, as if he hadn’t fudged the numbers and counted himself out.
Emory turned to Jack, whose cheeks flushed red.
Treachery must’ve never crossed his mind.
Good time Jack, boozing and bantering, wouldn’t notice the divide, not until the earth split and swallowed them whole.
Emory fetched the whiskey bottle from Pete and took a swig. Only on rare occasions did the men see him drink—shadow walks, funerals, weddings. He marked the milestones but scarcely the road between. They watched him as he held the room in silence.
“That tracks with what I’ve seen.” Emory swished another slug of booze on the inside of his cheek to dull the pain. “I would’ve said six, though.”
He stared at Disco in a winged-back chair too large for his slender frame.
He’d always carried himself bigger than what he was and had the stuffy, bespectacled appearance of a scholarly man.
He’d never looked the part. Disco said nothing but pressed his lips together and clasped white-knuckled hands in his lap.
Emory returned the bottle to Pete and presented the door with an outstretched arm. “Thomas, Disco, you’re free to leave.”
The circle tightened after the two men left, as if the walls might soak up secrets shared there.
Emory noticed how battered his men were.
Blood matted Pete’s golden curls from a nasty cut to the scalp.
Half of the knuckles on Corey’s right hand were busted.
A bullet graze split open Zulu’s forearm.
It wouldn’t need stitches, but the cut mangled a bit of tattoo work.
“We can’t go to war if we don’t trust our own brothers,” Emory said, though he knew damn well war wouldn’t wait for loyalties to align.
“We have to put a tourniquet on this. It’s the only way we’ll have a fighting chance.
We’ll focus on Scotty and Eli. Marcus, Nate, and Sal will fall in line with some persuasion.
Corey, I want you to keep an eye on Disco. ”
“It’s Scotty, man,” Pete said and chewed a hangnail. “Eli’s just a hothead. He’ll come around. Scotty’s got the chip on his shoulder.”
Emory might’ve guessed as much. Grievances always boiled down to three things—money, women, pride.
Years ago, Scotty fancied himself a shoo-in for captain of Las Vegas post. When Liam appointed Emory instead, Scotty cried nepotism to anyone who’d listen.
Few did, and the stunt landed him a post in cakewalk territory no one else wanted.
“We need someone trusted inside Scotty’s territory,” Jack said. “Do we have anyone who can blend in and go unnoticed?”
Emory surveyed the circle, and each man shook his head, all but Pete.
“Zules, how do you feel about Northern California?” Pete asked but looked to Emory. “What do you think? It’s not uncommon for green soldiers to move crews. I’d be willing to loan him.”
Emory mulled it over. Trust broke down the ranks. If he couldn’t trust Scotty, then he couldn’t trust Scotty’s inner circle either. He needed an embed.
“If I send you to Redding post, can you be my eyes and ears?” Emory asked Zulu.
The kid nodded. “I’ll be there as soon as you need me.”
“Thank you. You came through tonight, and I owe you,” Emory told Zulu and then the broader room, “Same goes for the rest of you.”
Corey brushed aside the kudos and asked, “What about the white line operation? Do we bother with that now?”
Emory glanced at Liam. Still entranced by the flames, he rubbed his chin but offered no sage words. Emory already knew what he’d say. Keep your head.
“Yes,” Emory said. The men would want blood—and rightfully so—but they couldn’t lose sight of broader strategy.
“We need to create stress fractures in the Velascos. We hit them where it hurts first—their longest-serving captain, their Gio. When morale’s low, we feed discontent in the lower ranks.
We send the message none of this would’ve happened if it weren’t for Ivan.
We never wanted this and have a common enemy.
With any luck, they turn from the bottom up. ”
“With no luck, we risk escalation,” Corey said.
“True,” Emory conceded, “but that’s always a risk, and we can’t roll over on what happened tonight. They’ll keep pushing boundaries if we do. We hit back hard and signal we’ll negotiate only if they give up Ivan.”
The men concurred with a round of nods. Emory ran his fingers through grimy hair crusted with sweat and dried blood.
“That’s all I have,” he said. “Stay safe. We’ll get through this.”
The last part tasted bitter rolling off his tongue. We’ll get through this. He’d said it as much for himself as the others, and when the men filed past him and said goodnight, he couldn’t rightly tell if they believed it either. For the time being, it’d do.
After Corey, Pete, and Zulu left, Emory sunk into the sofa and Jack into the winged-back chair. Liam remained at the fireplace where the flames popped and hissed. He’d been uncommonly quiet but turned to Emory and Jack.
“You boys came here as a precaution. This place isn’t a safe haven anymore. Bad things are bound to happen if you stay.”
Jack puffed an offended breath. “What are you saying?”
“That you and Emory need to leave.”
“I’m not running away scared—”
“And I’m not asking!” Liam pounded the mantle.
A porcelain vase, ancient and undoubtedly irreplaceable, wobbled close to the edge.
Liam paid no attention to it and leveled furious eyes at Jack.
“War is here. The armistice with the Velascos is over. It won’t be reinstated.
Ivan will be back. These are certainties that promise bloodshed and death.
You’re leaving, and I’m not negotiating terms.”
To Jack’s obvious dismay, Emory agreed. “He’s right. We’re sitting ducks if we stay here.”
“And what do you suggest?” Jack fired back.
Emory stood, knees popping and cheek smarting. Sooner or later, he wouldn’t be cut out for this shit anymore, and his body would fail long before his mind.
“I’ll head to California with Amelia,” Emory said but left out the rest. It’d be a one-way trip.
“I’ll set up headquarters at my home there.
It’s well enough off the grid, and the Velascos don’t have reach into that territory.
If I can pull Ivan out of the woodwork, he’ll have less backing there than in Vegas.
I’ll deal with Scotty. Pete will come with me and keep an eye on Zulu. ”
“And Miri?” Jack asked with a hopeful ring that seemed to both thrill and sicken him. He never attached himself to one woman for long. To Jack, love was a liability.
“You and Miri will go back to Vegas. You’ll oversee Corey’s takeover. If Disco steps out of line, you do the needful. You and I will handle war plans. Pete and Corey will rally the rest of the captains. We need to mind the morale and make sure the men and their families are taken care of.”
Jack chuckled, pulled out a cigarette, and rolled the filter between his thumb and index finger.
Emory studied him, the dirt caked beneath his fingernails and the childhood scar from a broken arm.
Brave Jack, where did he go? The man in the chair had hair that hung in strings and hunched as if he were chilly.
More likely, his vices had him in a stranglehold.