1. Nash
ONE
NASH
"They’re always so much fun when they run."
Rowan shook his head at me as Angel and I took off chasing the fat-pig-motherfucker down this musty ass alleyway behind the target’s favorite gambling joint. We were neck and neck, racing as we often did to liven things up. The temptation to reach out and trip him so I could win was strong, but I fought back that particular urge, basking in the rush of adrenaline and the steady beat of my heart as it forced more blood through my veins. A small part of me wondered what Tanner’s body was doing for him during this chase. Was it double-timing work to help prolong his imminent demise?
Might as well just shut down on him. Save him a lot of fucking pain, honestly.
We turned the corner he disappeared around seconds before, and I reached out an arm, my fingers brushing against the thin, cheap fabric of his shirt.
That got his attention.
Tanner McClure turned his head to see how close we were, and you could see the immediate realization in his eyes. The awareness that outrunning us was impossible. That he was going to die eventually. Either we’d catch him, or his cholesterol-clogged heart would give out.
The latter would almost be a mercy. If we caught him, things would be messy, painful, and drawn out.
"Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck," he wheezed, damn near managing to trip over his own feet when he tried to jump over an obstacle instead of going around it. "Please, please, let me go, fuck!"
Angel was taller than me by a head, and his wingspan was equally as impressive. With a grunt and a grin, he shoved off his next step with all the grace of a fucking crane taking flight, and tackled the fucker with a well-placed death roll that any gator would be proud of.
"Dammit, you beat me again!" I gasped, doubling over to catch my breath as Angel wrestled the squirming man on the ground. " Fucking not fair, those legs of yours. Fucking ostrich-ass motherfucker."
Angel wasn’t listening to me ramble breathlessly. No, he was too busy with his hands around ole’ boy’s throat to pay me any mind. Which was a shame, really. My insults were top-tier.
"Would you fucking hold still? I don’t want to get any more dirty than I already am."
McClure stared into his eyes, hatred and fear warring for first place. I wondered if the man had an ounce of self-preservation?—
"Fuck you, ya sissy ass bitch. Just kill me already, and stop playing games."
Welp. So much for common sense. Angel was sensitive about his looks. Names like that were the quickest way to get under his skin.
"The fuck did you call me?" he spat, his eyes narrowing to deadly slit status. "Say it again, motherfucker, I dare you."
"Don’t do it," I supplied helpfully. "It’s a trap."
Apparently, Tanner McClure had realized by now his only chance at mercy was a quick death. He screwed his little fucking pig snout up and winced as he made one of the worst—or best—decisions of his soon-to-be-ending life.
"Sissy bitch," he repeated, a smug smile crossing his features. "And I’ll say it again, too. Sissy bi?—"
Angel’s knife came out in a flash, slicing across the man’s jugular in one precise, practiced move, spraying arterial blood directly at the chest of his brand-new grey button-up. I watched the blood blooming in the expensive silk fabric, like a flower made of the prettiest paints, weaving into the threads with each passing second.
"Aw, fuck, man, you killed him." I sagged against the wall, all the excitement drained from the chase now. "The fuck, Angel? You’re not supposed to make it easy for them?—"
"Suck a dick, Nash. You don’t have to fucking toy with every single one of them. Go get your rocks off somewhere else, you psycho." He stared at the blade of his knife, his upper lip curling as he turned it back and forth. "Ugh. Fucking brand new shirt, too."
Of course that’d be his chief complaint.
We dragged him back to where Rowan waited with the Torino, his muscled torso leaning against the trunk hanging open in wait for its next victim. And once we’d loaded him up, we drove to the fucking Dread River, our usual spot for body dumps and fucking secret murders.
I was currently waiting my turn to have a little fun, which wouldn’t make up for the quick death he’d won, but it was a start.
I shook my head like a dog, watching the droplets of sweat fly from my face. "Fuck me, it’s hot out here."
To my left, Angel swiped a hand across his brow and rolled his attentive, sharp eyes. "You’re always hot, you moron. If you ditched the leather getup, maybe you’d stop complaining about it."
I glared daggers at him and ran my hands down the form-fitting leather pants I loved so much. "You’re just jealous because I look better in them."
"Knock it off, you two," Ro grumbled behind us, dragging his blade across the thigh of his jeans. "This is no time to play around. We have a job to finish, and then we’re home free for at least a week."
The target, Tanner McClure, was a down-on-his-luck shitface of a man who’d sold his wife into the sex trade to cover his gambling debts. She reached out to the Guild. And our boss, Lilly St. Clair, was a sucker for the fucking sob stories.
I yanked my blade from my boot and grinned like a wildman, relishing the weight of it in my sweaty palm. The men, I didn’t maul and mangle, but I still enjoyed slicing them up to lure in the gators.
The metal edge cut through his skin like butter, digging deep grooves and splitting the fuckwad like a fucking banana being peeled. Blood welled up in places, but not as fast as I’d like. He’d been dead too long, thanks to Angel and his quick temper.
Nobody with half a brain would have come down that dark alley at night. But Tanner McClure didn’t have many brain cells in that skull of his rattling around these days. I suspected he never had.
"Come on, Nash," Ro urged, his domineering attitude making itself known. "We’re wasting time. Just get him up and in the back of the car, and let’s head to the bridge."
"You’re so predictable, Rowan. It’s always the fucking bridge," I grumbled, tossing the bloody body over my shoulder. "We always toss the bodies off the fucking bridge. When are we gonna have some fun and do things a little differently?"
The limp shell of a man made a dull thud sound when I loaded him into the trunk of the Torino. Old beast was refinished, refurbished, redone, whatever fucking word you used when you entirely overhaul a classic car—so, of course, Angel had laid down a fucking tarp, so we didn’t dirty her up.
Killers, being anal retentive about their car’s interior.
Hadn’t he heard of having it steam-cleaned? The Neons didn’t bother washing the blood from their dirtbikes until they’d dragged a body behind them all the way back to the Guild. And St. Clair only bitched a little bit about their messes.
"We do things the way we’ve always done them because they’re efficient and they work. If it’s not broken, why fix it?" Ro slipped into the driver’s seat, his hands already gripping the wheel at ten and two like he was some sort of grandpa. Fucker was super controlling about the least little detail, and such a perfectionist. It was excruciating to watch.
"Sure, sure, keep that stick shoved up your ass. Maybe loosen those locs of yours, man. They're sucking the fun out of your brain and leaving all the annoying logic." I slipped in behind Angel’s seat, frustrated with my asshole siblings. I always had to ride bitch. I was the shortest, so it made sense for me to ride in the back.
A lot of my life was the way it was, just because it made sense.
I was tired of it all.
I wanted change. I wanted to do something different.
But it was hard to do things differently when your face resembled a lousy imitation of the Black Dahlia Murders and the Joker’s painted scars blended together.
Not a single target had ever seen our faces, and I planned to keep it that way.
"Yo, man, you good?" Angel turned around in his seat and stared at me like I was broken. It took me about three seconds to realize the car had stopped, and I spent the whole ride zoned out in my own thoughts.
"Fine, I’m fine, you fuckstick," I growled, shoving his seat up with him still in it to force my way out of the car. Clearly, I was anything but fine, but I didn’t need his patronizing bullshit or Ro’s overbearing concern. But considering where I ended up when I stepped out of the car and slammed the door, maybe I should have reconsidered that thought.
Because I’d emerged dead center of a busy intersection.
Fuck me, man. I was really in my own head these days.
Angel and Ro motioned for me to get back in the car, but I was pissed. My brain was on autopilot, and it was dark out. I had a painted face, and this was Port Wylde. Nobody would bother me here after dark. I flipped them the bird and turned around, walking through six lanes of traffic not likely to stop for my ass when their lights reflected off the metal studs in my jacket.
The sidewalk under my feet felt familiar, the same texture and stability I’d walked on for three years every night after that— after our first hit. The only one that’d ever stuck in my brain in a bad way.
Harper.
Fucking Harper Daniels.
When I turned back around, the Torino was gone, likely because even as a member of the Guild, certain things were still illegal. Like driving around with a body in your trunk, still warm, covered in marks. And if the cops caught them, that’d be the end of us. We had an understanding with the force, the Guild did, but we’d always known if the wrong cop caught us out doing illegal things, we were on our own. That’s why we operated mainly in the dark.
That was Keehn’s shift. Or whatever St. Clair’s ex-husband’s name was. He had been cleaning up behind her and hiding her illicit business model for damn near twelve years. Hell, I still thought the fucker had feelings for her, even after all this time, and their messy divorce.
I wasn’t the only one, either.
But that was none of my business.
Lights blurred together as I walked down the street with no destination in mind, just pure, unrestrained wandering. My feet led the way, my mind disconnected—par for the course these days, with me. Around me, the city was a blur, the noises melding together until it was nothing but a muddled chorus of horns honking and people screaming out their windows at the other drivers. Somewhere in the distance, someone played street music, a low, melancholy tune that perfectly fit the city's mood. At night, nothing good happened here. You didn’t go on evening walks on the beach. You didn’t visit cute little nighttime cafes, even though there were some that stayed open this late. You didn’t make midnight runs to the corner store unless you had a death wish.
Nighttime in Port Wylde was a free-for-all, like the Purge movies come to life. It was a lawless city. And I’d been living here for far too long. I’d become desensitized to it all.
One more day, one more night, just another twenty-four hours in my fucking pathetic life.
And many more to come.
Not that they were worth looking forward to.
The thought of continuing this pitiful existence as I had been for years clung to me like the stink of fresh shit on your shoe as I marched into a familiar convenience store just around the corner of the Asylum where we lived, grinning at the cashier as I whipped the blood from my hands on my undershirt and reached for an empty soda cup at the fountain.
"Hey, Vinnie, how’s it going?"