Draven (The O’Reilly Brotherhood #5)

1. Draven

Chapter 1

Draven

The wince the armed cop to my right makes when I clamp my hand on his shoulder and squeeze lets me know I’ve compressed a nerve. Good. I meant to. He’s a jerk who’s come far too close to screwing up several weeks of careful planning. If this bastard’s trigger finger twitches one more time, I’ll chop off his fucking hand.

“Cool your goddamn jets, shit for brains.” The words rustle out on a hiss, and my eyes flare. His widen in response, but not with the desire to murder like mine, only in trepidation. He half smiles in apology and shrugs a shoulder. He’ll be lucky to live through the night if he carries on.

The idiot had been a last-minute switch for Gavin, whose missus had gone into early labor with their third kid, and he’s not a change I would have picked if I’d had the choice.

Spoiler alert: I hadn’t.

Months of back-breaking work has gotten me to this point, but now I’ve reached the end of the line, the cops are here to make the actual arrest. It pisses me off, but it’s what I signed up for when I left the NYPD more than three years ago to set up my own private investigative firm. I don’t regret it for a second. Taking on high-end investigative and security clients allows me to flex my creative muscles—the rules and regulations of law enforcement having eventually taken their toll.

Okay, sure, my bosses had made it clear I had two choices: resign or get fired. Pushed into a corner, I usually come out fighting, but I also know when I’m beaten. Funny thing is that in hindsight, it had been exactly the change I’d needed. And when, eighteen months ago, my best friend Ciaran left the force, too, and bought into my firm… well, that was just the best fucking day ever. I’d never have asked him, and he knew it. Ciaran was born to be a cop, but times change, and so did his priorities.

My only regret? I don’t get to see cases through to the bitter end anymore. Once the perps are in custody, I move on to the next.

Still, freedom from the chains of a legit job brings a heck of a lot of upsides.

Behind me, slightly to my left, a twig snaps.

I shoot a glare over my shoulder. “Keep fucking still,” I hiss.

“Sorry,” the cop mouths, shifting his position for the second time. The sound of another twig cracking through the silent night has my hands clenching into fists.

“Move again, asshole, and I’ll shoot you in the balls,” I grit out under my breath. “Give you a real reason to make a fucking din.”

Rick Mathieson, the lead cop on this particular operation, and a close friend of mine, narrows his eyes. “Draven,” he says, his tone low and laced with plenty of warning.

I ignore him, returning my attention to the street, waiting for the first sighting of Franco Moretti’s black SUV.

Headlamps light up the road from the approaching vehicle casting its beam against the hedgerow, briefly illuminating the greenery on the right-hand side of the narrow track. I peer through my night vision goggles.

There you are, you slimy bastard.

“It’s him, plus three,” I whisper to Rick as the car comes into view. I hold up four fingers so the rest of the team know how many perps we have to contend with.

The car turns into the driveway of the single-story house we’ve been watching for the past two hours, waiting for that fucker to show up with a fresh set of ‘clients’.

The backdoors of the SUV open, and two guys climb out, both Caucasian. One, somewhere around five eight, five nine, with cropped brown hair, and a nondescript face. The other, a few inches taller, reedy looking, with dirty blond hair that he’d clearly modeled on the Brad Pitt of Meet Joe Black fame. The passenger door opens, and a third guy of African American descent appears. He’s a big bastard, tall enough to try out for the Knicks.

Sorry not sorry, motherfuckers. Your lives are about to go down the shitter.

With my back ramrod straight as Moretti shows his dirty-ass face, my thigh muscles clench, ready to launch into a flat-out run. Moretti’s laughter fills the damp night air, forcing me to grind my teeth together. Watching this guy operate has turned my stomach so many times, my insides could double up as a washer-dryer. But finally, fucking finally , we have enough on him to nail his balls to the wall and send him down for a nice long stretch. One more piece of shit off the streets.

Moretti moves around to the trunk and opens it, reaching inside to hoist out a large, black carryall. After locking the car, he casts a cursory glance around, drapes an arm around the black guy’s shoulders, then enters the house with the three men.

The group of cops hold position, barely breathing, their senses on high alert. Even the useless idiot next to me has stopped moving. After a few minutes pass, I lock eyes with Rick. He gives a curt nod, holds his clenched fist in the air, then points, signaling to the team to move in.

Yanking my gun from the waistband of my jeans, I pray for a chance to put a bullet right through Moretti’s dick. Shooting his brains out would be too easy, too quick, too painless, and he deserves to suffer. What better way than to remove his undoubtedly tiny fucking dick, then watch while he squirms in agony, clutching what remains of his manhood.

Won’t be able to rape any more women then, will he? Fucker.

The seven of us break cover from the heavily dense woodland that surrounds the house—a perfect location for Moretti’s vile activities. Creeping forward with my knees bent, barely breathing, we fan out—me a foot or so ahead of Rick. In my peripheral vision I catch glimpses of the rest of the team: straight arms parallel to the ground, fingers to the side of the trigger, ready for action.

Rick and I stand to the left and right of the front door, then Rick whirls his finger in the air and points, an instruction to two of his team to go around to the rear of the property. He cocks his head at Mark, his second-in-command and a helluva good cop, who nods to confirm he understands what he needs to do.

Mark waits for his coworkers to get in position, then aims his semiautomatic at the door lock, pulls the trigger, and kicks open the door. The team piles into the house with Mark shouting, “Police! Nobody fucking move!”

Half-naked girls scramble to cover themselves with whatever scraps of material are close at hand, their eyes blown wide. The two Caucasians Moretti arrived with hold their hands in the air, their erect dicks quickly deflating, hanging limply between their legs.

Rick scurries down the hallway with three of his guys, busting each door open, then disappearing inside. A loud slam reaches me, and I race to the rear of the house in time to see Moretti lunging over the back fence. One of the cops is in the middle of the yard, out cold, while the other one desperately clasps at Moretti’s jacket…and misses. Moretti fires his gun wildly, then disappears.

I wrench open the back door and spill outside. “Stay with him,” I order the second cop, pointing to the prostrate body lying on the ground, a pool of blood spreading across his shoulder. “Call an ambulance.”

Sprinting across the unkempt and overgrown lawn, I throw myself over the fence, power surging through my thigh muscles as I take off after Moretti. He’s gotten a head start, but foot by foot, I cut the distance between us, reeling him in. My lungs scream for more air, and I suck in gasping breaths, pushing myself to sprint even faster.

He fires his gun over his shoulder. I duck, stumble, and my toe catches in a tree root, sending me sprawling to the ground with a thud. My face meets the thankfully damp earth. If the ground had been solid, I’d have a busted nose to go along with the agonizing twist to my ankle.

“ Argh! ”

I launch upright, limping after Moretti until the searing pain in my ankle eases, then I put on a spurt of speed. This bastard is not escaping. Not after all the hours of intelligence, of sitting in cars watching from the shadows, and gathering evidence so we could finally put an end to his activities. No, this time Moretti is going down.

“Your ass is mine, motherfucker.”

Slowly, with each passing second, I inch closer. Moretti glances over his shoulder to check on my whereabouts before he sets off another flurry of bullets, but that’s his mistake. He slowed down to shoot at me—a fatal error that allows me to pounce. Tackling him to the ground, I straddle his hips. He wriggles and writhes, but I’m far too heavy, so I grip the scrawny bastard’s wrists, wrench his arms behind his back, and snap on the cuffs—a memento from my time with the NYPD. I should have handed them in when I left. Then again, I’ve never been one to abide by rules.

“Don’t even breathe, asshole.”

I stand, hauling Moretti to his feet by the scruff of his neck before I spin him around. The bastard smirks at me, and those dark, shark-like eyes focus with complete disdain—the assured confidence of the type of scumbag who thinks themselves untouchable.

“Wanna take a guess on how long it’ll be before I’m out and running more girls?” Moretti twists his lips to one side in thought. “I’d give it a week. Probably less. I know people in highfalutin positions. People who’ll pull a few strings, grease a few palms, and bam! I’m out.” He throws back his head and laughs. “Must be so fulfilling to have an occupation like yours. While you’re pointlessly chasing me, I’m sticking my dick in countless hot, wet pussies while my other bitches spread their legs for my punters and earn me more money than most people see in a fucking lifetime. And you know what? They love it. The fucking whores love it.”

Rage rushes through me, Moretti’s unapologetic speech the final straw, and I headbutt him. His nose caves in. Blood spurts everywhere, and he goes down.

I peer at him. Huh. He’s out cold. Fucking sissy. While he’s on the ground, I take the opportunity to stamp the heel of my boot right into his crotch. Fucker is so out of it, he doesn’t even flinch.

“Won’t be sticking your dick in any pussies for a while now, will ya? Asshole.” I draw back my foot and kick him in the back, right where his kidneys are. “And, as an added bonus, you can enjoy pissing blood for the next two weeks.”

“Draven!” Rick appears from behind me, red-faced and panting. He takes one look at the bloodied mess lying at my feet and curses. “Terrific,” he says, sarcasm prevalent in his tone. “You any idea how much paperwork that’s gonna cost me?”

I shrug and throw my hands out to the side. “What? I found him like that.”

I expect Rick to laugh. We’ve worked together on several cases since I left the NYPD, and although Rick doesn’t cross the line like I do, he walks pretty damn close at times. Except there isn’t a flicker of amusement in his gaze. He crouches and presses two fingers to Moretti’s neck. Satisfied he’s still breathing—fucking sadly—Rick straightens.

“You gotta stop this, man. I know how hard it is, how pointless it seems at times, but this is not the way to solve the issue.”

“Fuck off, Rick,” I growl. “I left the NYPD because I’d had enough of being constrained. Of having to follow rules and procedures that meant the bad guy always had the upper hand.”

Rick gives me a look that screams bullshit. “You left because you had no choice. Because they didn’t give you a choice—not really. Don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes. I mean it, Draven. Rein it in, otherwise your position as a security contractor with my force is over, and along with it your SCI clearance.”

I narrow my eyes, barely able to believe Rick’s audacity, and I plant my feet wide. “Don’t fucking threaten me, Rick.”

He sweeps a hand over his face and expels a heavy sigh. “All I’m saying is don’t pen me into a corner. Look, you’re a fantastic investigator—the best I’ve ever worked with—and the fact you’re a gigantic sonofabitch isn’t a bad thing, either. But we all have to follow the rules. Without them, we’re just as bad as the perps we put away.” Rick turns his back and mutters into his walkie-talkie, calling for an ambulance.

Pissed off with Rick as well as the piece of shit lying on the ground, I stomp off, calling over my shoulder, “I want my fucking handcuffs back!”