Chapter Forty-Two-Remy
I can’t imagine what Judgment Day will look like for me.
With all the bad shit I’ve done—whether under the guise of duty or not—it’s all bad.
Blood on my hands.
Secrets I’ll carry to the grave.
Brothers in uniform lost in battle.
My sister who died when I wasn’t there to protect her.
But this? What I’m about to do right now?
I have a feeling this particular thing won’t be the one that keeps me on the other side of those pearly gates.
Because with that Christmas Eve visitation looming over our heads like Doomsday, I have no other choice.
The way my Andy looked at me. The way she knew what I needed from her?
Her ready acceptance. Her approval. Her go ahead.
Well, that just cemented it for me.
I’m here to do what I do best.
There won’t be a fucking trace of this cockroach left. Just the ashes born of my rage and his impotent attempt to blackmail me.
No, there’s just no other option.
I won’t ever let that bastard Julio Castillo anywhere near my little girl.
So now I’m at Sigma headquarters. It’s dark out, but only just after six.
I’m gearing up. Glock. A couple of spare clips. Four blades—one curved, two straight, and fucking Bowie in case he gets cute.
Not to mention enough fury in my chest to torch half the state.
“I’d go with the ten-inch blade myself. I bet it slices real nice through all that subcutaneous fat that piece of shit is carrying around,” a voice says from my right as I’m strapping the holster to my thigh.
I don’t startle.
Too well trained for that.
But I do lift a brow when I see Junior—Nico Fury Jr.—gearing up beside me.
And he’s not alone.
Connor. Liam. Ono. They’re all with him.
And one more—my fucking father-in-law. Andres Ramirez himself.
They’re all armed. All ready. Some are smirking and joshing like this is just another day in the office.
“Nah, he’s right to go with the six-inch curved,” Liam adds, checking his rifle sight. “Cuts the major arteries with minimal movement. Cleaner.”
“Not that I don’t appreciate the advice, but—what the fuck are you guys doing here?” I demand.
“You didn’t think I’d let some asshole take my precious granddaughter away from me, did you?” Andres growls, sliding a 9mm into the holster at his hip.
I shake my head, fighting a twisted smile.
“So this is what family support looks like for the Volkovs?”
“You know it, brother,” Connor answers, slapping a mag into place with a grin. “Besides, we have to test this prick’s weapons before we buy in bulk, don’t we?”
“Fuck you,” a new voice cuts in, lightly accented, smooth as silk.
I glance over. My eyebrows damn near hit my hairline.
Atlas Stavros. That Greek royal pain in the ass.
Suited up. Armed to the gills.
And of course, looking like he just stepped out of a GQ spread and into a goddamn war zone.
“What? No army of naked women following you around?” I ask, not even joking.
“Fuck you too, Falco. Now, gentlemen, I understand we are going hunting. Might I suggest our latest,” Stavros says, unleashing a shiny new automatic weapon, cool as a cucumber.
Junior takes one.
But I’ll stick with my knives. Julio’s threat was personal, and I think his death should be, too.
“Shall we take my car?” Atlas asks.
I rub a hand down my face. Why the fuck not?
“Sure,” I mutter, voicing my thoughts aloud. “Why the fuck not?”
Hours later we’re in Wharton.
A crumbling hovel reeking of mold, piss, and meth dust.
A stash house of sorts.
And it’s filled with the kind of poison the Vipers have been working furiously to keep out of Jersey City.
Powder. Pills. Crystal meth. Guns.
Fuck me, now I see what they’re really doing.
Trafficking.
Men and women who look half-dead clustered together on dirty mattresses. They aren’t just addicts.
They’re merchandise.
“These pieces of shit are selling people,” Ono says.
I nod. And the others get even madder.
My anger grows, and I know now that this is the right move. Undoubtedly.
No one’s going to shed a tear if this place goes up in smoke.
Connor catches my eye, then makes a small gesture with two fingers.
Translation: he’s planting charges.
This place won’t exist by sunrise.
Fine by me. We’ll get the civilians out. Make sure they leave a wide fucking perimeter.
But that’s all the time I have to think about that because I see him.
Julio Castillo.
Strutting like he’s king of the fucking world, even in this filthy fucking shithole.
Andres growls and raises his weapon, but I put a hand up.
My eyes lock on Julio’s position, and blood is roaring in my ears.
Then, the whole world goes quiet.
Like even the trees know—Julio Castillo just ran out of time.
“This motherfucker is mine,” I say.
The words taste like iron on my tongue.
We move in perfect synchronicity, and it is a thing of fucking beauty.
Junior, Ono, Atlas, and Liam raise their weapons and scream at the victims, the men and women half-dazed, used, and abused by these wretched assholes, to get the fuck out.
They do. They scurry.
Even the one that has to be dragged out the door by her friend.
I see Atlas handing them cards, and I don’t know what he’s up to, but that’s his business.
Andres and Connor have three human trafficking drug dealers on the floor with their hands raised in the air.
Soldiers. Casualties of fucking war. Low lives. Criminals.
Only they won’t be getting a trial. They’ll be getting dead. Real soon. Like any fucking minute.
Julio comes out of the back room, all swagger and smirk, until his gaze meets mine.
Then, the color drains from his face.
He knows.
He knows exactly why I’m here.
“You—” he starts, but I cut him off, a single step forward making him stumble back.
The room is thick with tension.
Connor, Liam, Junior, Stavros, and Andres spread out behind me, keeping Julio’s men on the walls at gunpoint.
No one dares move.
Not with this much firepower aimed their way.
It’s just him and me now.
“You sent packages to my house,” I snarl. “To my wife. To my little girl.”
Julio shrugs, that slick grin slipping back into place.
“It was just a warning. You can still make this right. Pay up, and I’ll forget the whole thing.”
I stalk closer, pulling the curved blade from my thigh holster.
The metal gleams under the flickering bulb overhead.
“You think this is about money?” My voice drops to a lethal whisper. “You came for my family. My daughter.”
His smirk wavers. “She’s not your daughter, Falco. She’s mine. Blood doesn’t lie.”
“Wrong fucking answer, douchebag.”
Then I lunge.
The blade flashes.
His scream tears through the hovel as the tip slices across his forearm, clean and quick, shallow enough to keep him upright but deep enough to make him bleed.
He stumbles back, clutching his arm, eyes wild. “You fucking psycho! Callie is my daughter. You married that fat bitch for her money, I just want a taste—”
I grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall.
Dust rains from the ceiling, plaster cracking.
“The fuck you say? Nah. You don’t get to talk about her. You don’t get to breathe the same air as her,” I hiss.
His pulse pounds under my fingers, erratic, weak.
“You’re done.”
Behind me, I hear Liam murmur something about “quick and clean,” but I’m not in the mood for clean.
I want messy.
I want him to remember me in his last fucking second of consciousness.
“Please—” Julio chokes, eyes bulging. “We—we can make a deal. Come to an agreement.”
“No deals. No fucking agreements.”
I slam him again, harder.
The blade presses to his ribs, right under his heart. He freezes, the reality of what’s coming sinking in.
“Who’s the motherfucker you threatened to introduce Callie to. The one you said would be her special friend?” I ask and hear the growls of the men I brought with me echo in the filthy little room.
“T-Thomas Gerrison.”
“Where does he live?”
“I can show you—”
“Where?” I stick the blade in a little deeper, just enough to scare him.
“We—Weehawken. I’ll leave. I’ll go to Mexico. You’ll never see me again.”
“That’s something we can agree on. But Julio, no one is ever gonna see you again,” I rumble, my voice deep and full of hate and gravel.
His eyes are wide as he frantically mumbles and grabs at the hand holding him captive by the neck.
I lean my head back so I can watch him as I sink my knives into his flesh.
“This is for the dead flowers you sent my wife.”
I drag the blade across his side—shallow but agonizing.
He howls.
“This is for the bracelet you sent my little girl.”
I punch him, knuckles cracking bone.
He sags against me, wheezing.
“And this?” My blade lifts, my lips curl back in a snarl. “This is for thinking you could ever take what’s mine.”
One brutal plunge.
The steel sinks home, right between his ribs.
His gasp rattles in his chest. His eyes roll back.
Blood bubbles from his lips as his knees buckle in a gory, grotesque display.
I don’t yank the blade free until he stops wheezing. Then I do, letting him collapse to the floor.
A crimson pool spreads beneath him, soaking into the rotten wood.
Silence.
Then Junior whistles low.
“Well. That was final.”
Connor lights a cigarette, utterly unfazed.
“I’ll get the charges set.”
Andres claps me once on the shoulder, heavy and approving. “You did what needed to be done.”
I wipe the blade clean on Julio’s shirt and sheath it, staring down at the man who thought he could threaten my family.
He thought he was playing checkers.
But I was always playing chess.
And now?
The board is mine.