26 TOBIAS
The zip ties dig into their wrists and ankles as the two thugs squirm against the concrete wall. Blood drips from their split lips onto the ground. My knuckles ache, but the rage still pulses through my veins as I remember finding Corey.
The static of the walkie had caught my attention. A scuffle, then silence. When I stepped into that alley, Corey was on the ground, these pieces of shit taking turns kicking him, beating him with a iron pipe.
"Who the fuck sent you?" I lean down, getting in the face of the one with the nose ring. The metallic scent of blood mingles with cheap cologne. "Better start talking before my friend gets here."
"Fuck you," he spits, crimson spraying across my shirt.
I straighten up, cracking my neck. "Wrong answer."
The other one, sporting a sleeve of mediocre tattoos, shifts nervously. "Look man, we were just supposed to rough him up a bit.
Send a message."
"What message?"
"Something about staying in his lane. Not our business to know more."
The walkie on my belt crackles. Haven's soft voice comes through: "He's stable but needs some stitches. Julian's five minutes out."
I press the button. "Copy that." Looking back at our guests, I crack my knuckles. "Five minutes. That's how long you have to give me something useful before Julian gets here. And trust me - you'd rather deal with me."
Nose Ring sneers. "That pretty boy bartender? Please."
A dark chuckle escapes me. "Pretty boy used to make his living breaking people in the octagon. But hey, your funeral."
The metallic click of Julian's boots echoes off the alley walls before I see him. He emerges from the shadows, moonlight glinting off the silencer already attached to his pistol.
"Any last words?" I ask our guests, stepping back.
Nose Ring opens his mouth, but Julian doesn't give him the chance. Two muffled pops, precise and efficient. The bodies slump forward, dark liquid pooling beneath them.
"Damn, not even a hello?" I run my hand through my hair, the adrenaline finally starting to fade.
Julian checks his watch, tucking the weapon away. "Figured you'd gotten everything useful by now. These types never know much anyway - just hired muscle."
"True enough." I grab my phone, scrolling through contacts.
"Though Tattoo Boy did mention something about 'staying in our lane.' Whatever the fuck that means."
I find the number I'm looking for - our regular cleanup crew.
They answer on the first ring.
"Got a package for pickup. Two pieces, usual spot." I pause, listening. "Yeah, tonight. Cash on delivery."
Hanging up, I survey the scene. The copper smell of blood mingles with the rotting garbage in the dumpster nearby. Just another night in paradise.
Julian and I drag the bodies behind the dumpster, my boots sliding in the blood-slicked concrete.
The metallic stench mingles with rotting garbage, making my stomach turn.
Not from the death - seen plenty of that in the Marines - but the whole situation has me on edge.
Someone's coming at us hard. More importantly, coming at us also means coming at Rhea. And that shit ain’t going to fly.
"No use standing over these dumb fucks, no one’s probably even looking for them," Julian mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans. "We need to check on Corey ."
I nod, following him back inside. The service stairs creak under our weight as we take them two at a time. My heart is racing, not from exertion but worry. Corey's tough as nails, but that pipe...
Haven meets us at the door to his office, her petite frame blocking the entrance.
“How’s he doing?” Julian prods.
"He's being stubborn, per usual." Haven says with an eye roll.
"Let me go home," Corey's voice rasps from inside. "I don't need-"
"Shut up," Haven snaps, surprising us all. "You've got a deep gash that needs stitches."
I peek around her. Corey's sprawled in his leather chair, shirt torn and bloody. His left eye's swelling shut, and dried blood cakes his temple. But it's the way he's holding his ribs that concerns me most.
"Rhea is at home," he grates out, wincing as he shifts. "She can patch me up."
"But-" Haven starts.
"Not arguing about this, just put a damn bandaid on it and wrap it." Corey's good eye fixes on me. "Take me home, brother."
I exchange looks with Julian, who shrugs. "Man's got a point.
Rhea's got steady hands, and she'll be discrete."
"Fine." I move to help Corey up, careful of his ribs. "But you're riding in my truck. That fancy-ass Mercedes of yours is too low for you right now."
Corey attempts a laugh that turns into a groan. "Whatever you say, big man. Just get me out of here."