Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Trey
The Joker – Steve Miller Band
The door shuts behind us with a final, decisive click that seems to echo longer than it should, like the room itself is sealing me in, cutting me off from the roar of the crowd outside until all that remains is silence thick enough to taste.
I feel it settle over my skin as Gideon takes a slow step further into the room and turns to face me with that same calm, shining certainty in his eyes, like he’s already written the ending to this story and I’m just here to play my part in it.
He looks…pleased.
Not relieved. Not cautious.
Pleased.
Like he’s finally cornered something he’s been chasing.
For a second, just a second, I let the thought slide in.
Maybe this is it.
Maybe no one is coming.
Maybe this is where it ends.
And the thing that settles in my chest after that isn’t fear, isn’t hesitation, isn’t even regret.
It’s acceptance.
If this is where it ends…I go down swinging.
I’mma take my pound of flesh.
“Detain him,” Gideon says, his voice smooth, carrying that same quiet authority he uses on his followers out there, like he expects the world to bend simply because he speaks.
Three men step forward.
I don’t move.
I just watch them.
Somewhere in the space between one breath and the next, it happens—that shift I know better than anything else, that slow, inevitable click as something inside me slides into place and everything unnecessary falls away.
My breathing evens out.
The noise in my head goes quiet.
The edges of the room sharpen until I can see every detail—the tension in their shoulders, the way the first guy favors his right leg, the slight hesitation in the second man’s grip.
Violent calm settles over me like a second skin, and I feel my body loosen into it, into instinct, into something that doesn’t think, doesn’t question, doesn’t hesitate.
The first man reaches for me.
I thought that Chace had everyone on the inside on our fucking side…
I move.
One step in, one clean pivot, and my fist connects with his jaw with a crack that snaps through the silence, the force of it traveling up my arm as his head whips to the side and his body follows a second later, collapsing to the floor in a dead drop before he even knows what hit him.
You still got it, Champ.
I huff out a laugh, rolling my shoulder once.
“Well…that was disappointing.”
The other two freeze for half a second, exchanging a glance that tells me everything I need to know.
They’re already unsure.
They’re already behind.
There is a very good chance that you are just beating up church boys and not hardened Russian gangsters…
Thank fuck for that.
I grin.
“If you fuck like you fight, I bet your wife does all the work,” I murmur, tilting my head. “Come on boys, at least meet me halfway.”
They move together this time, one coming in fast from the left while the other hangs back half a step, trying to flank me, trying to be smart about it.
Doesn’t matter.
The first swing comes wide—too wide—and I slip inside it, grabbing his arm and using his own momentum to yank him forward before driving my knee up hard into his ribs, feeling something give under the impact as the air punches out of him in a broken gasp, and I don’t give him time to recover, twisting and slamming him down onto the floor with enough force to make the ground shudder beneath us.
Oh, shit…he’s all fucked up.
The second one lunges the moment I turn, his fist aiming for my face, but I catch his wrist mid-swing, the impact jolting through my grip before I wrench it sideways and step into him, driving my elbow into his throat, not enough to kill him but enough to drop him, enough to make him choke on his own breath as I follow it up with a sharp snар to his temple that sends him crumpling beside his friend.
Crushed trachea…he is probably going to be fine… I didn’t do very well with high school biology.
Nah, fuck him, let him be with Jesus.
Silence crashes back in.
All three of them are down.
I straighten slowly, rolling my neck once, adrenaline humming low and steady under my skin, my breathing controlled, measured, like I haven’t just dropped three grown men in under thirty seconds.
The door opens behind me.
I don’t turn right away.
“You fight well for a pretty boy.”
I snort, dragging a hand down the front of the fucking cardigan still tied around my shoulders as I glance over at Igor, then past him to where my dad steps into the room.
“Pretty boy?” I huff. “It’s the outfit, isn’t it? I feared trying a kick with these pants, didn’t want to lose aura snap kicking a motherfucker, only to have my arsehole out.
Johnathon doesn’t answer me, doesn’t even look at the bodies on the floor as he crosses the room in two long strides and grips Gideon by the shoulder, shoving him down into a chair hard enough to make it scrape loudly against the ground before unclipping the gun from his belt and setting it on the table beside him with disinterest.
Power stripped.
Control gone.
And Gideon feels it.
I see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his eyes flicker—not fear, not yet, but something close to it.
Then he starts talking.
Of course he does.
“You are a poison,” he spits, his voice rising, losing that calm edge it had a moment ago. “A stain upon this world. A destroyer. A heathen—”
‘Cause I'm a picker, I'm a grinner. I'm a lover and I'm a sinner. I play the music in the sun… Fucking love that song.
I lean back against the wall, crossing one leg over the other like I’ve got all the time in the world, like I’m not even slightly concerned about the man currently having a religious meltdown in front of me.
“This man not like you very much,” Igor observes mildly.
I grin.
“Yeah,” I say, pushing my glasses up my nose with one finger. “It’s all teen drama, Igor. You see, I have been making sweet, sweet, sweaty love with a woman half his age, and poor old Gideon over there doesn’t like it for some reason!”
Gideon’s face twists, fury flashing hot and fast now.
“You have no soul!”
I shrug lazily.
“You’re right there,” I tell him, my smile turning sharp. “My wife sucked that right out of me. Felt it leave my fucking body. Nearly dropped me to my knees.” I tilt my head, eyes locked on his. “Worth it though.”
That does it.
He snaps.
The movement is fast, faster than I expected, as he lunges for the gun on the table, fingers closing around it as he flicks the safety off in one smooth motion and swings it up toward me, his chest heaving, his control completely gone now.
“Not so smart now, are you!” he shouts.
I raise my hands slowly, palms out.
“I will have you know, I have never been accused of that.”
“Any last words, Mr. Baker?”
I almost laugh.
He still doesn’t get it.
Hasn’t clocked the fact that no one else in this room has even twitched, hasn’t noticed that Igor hasn’t moved, that my father hasn’t reached for anything, that I’m not even slightly concerned about the gun pointed at my chest.
“My name’s Theodore, bitch.”
He pulls the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
He frowns, jerks the gun slightly, pulls again.
Click.
Still nothing.
“Jonathon, you were right! Rat man did pull the trigger!” Igor says, taking a twenty-dollar note from his pocket and handing it to my dad.
My dad takes the money with a sneer, snatches the gun from Gideon’s grubby little fingers, ejects the magazine, checks it, then, with the slide pulled back, drops a round in. It snaps shut, the magazine clicking back into place.
I see the look in Gideon’s eyes as he realizes the truth of the situation he’s in—that moment where it all crashes down, where realization hits and the illusion shatters—and I watch it happen in real time as his eyes widen just a fraction, as he looks at the gun like it’s betrayed him, like his God just failed him.
Then he moves.
Too late.
I’m on him before he makes it two steps, slamming him back into the wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs as my hand closes around his throat, pinning him there, lifting him just enough that his heels scrape against the floor.
Up close, he doesn’t look powerful.
He looks small.
The piece of shit appears to be having a crisis of faith.
My fist connects with his face, the impact solid and satisfying as I feel his nose give under the force.
“That’s for my wife.”
I drag him forward just enough to slam my forehead into his, the crack echoing in the confined space as his head snaps back.
“That’s for stabbing me like a fucking pussy.”
He’s barely conscious when my father steps forward again, pressing the gun into my hand.
I take it.
Feel the weight of it settle into my palm as I press the barrel dead center against Gideon’s forehead, right between his eyes, exactly where it belongs.
“This,” I say quietly, “is for my family.”
His eyes squeeze shut.
I should just do it. I can do it… but…
Rushed whispers of prayer for mercy sound out, one stumbling word after another. I look up and find my dad watching me. God, he pisses me off just looking at him like that… is it disappointment? What the hell is that look supposed to be?
Will you still deserve Sera if you do this?
I never fucking deserved her. Taking his life will make them safe.
I want to pull the trigger… I also don’t.
Say something to piss me off, motherfucker.
Make me do it.
Stop looking so fucking feeble.
“Fuck it. Goodbye, Gideon.”
My finger starts to depress the trigger when I’m knocked off balance by one of the prone figures on the floor, the impact jolting the gun loose. It discharges once, the report sharp enough to rattle through my skull, and I lose my grip entirely.
I turn and stamp down on the fucker, driving my boot into his jaw and sending him skidding back across the floor.
Silence.
For a second, no one moves.
Then Gideon lets out a broken, hysterical laugh.
“The Lord has shown me mercy!” he gasps. “The Lord—”
The door opens.
Chace wanders in, cocking his head as he takes in Gideon still alive and me with the gun lying useless on the floor.
“Looks like you missed,” Chace says casually. “I heard the gunshot. Didn’t think you’d even pull the trigger, to be honest. Good for you.”
“Uh, sir,” Igor says, grimacing.
“What’s wrong, Igor?”
He lifts his hand, revealing a clean through-and-through hole. My dad is shuffling around behind him, cursing under his breath.
“Praise be!” Gideon calls out.
Chace snickers and steps forward, drawing his own weapon. He pistol-whips Gideon to the floor, teeth scattering across the concrete.
“You missed this piece of shit,” he says, “but you managed to shoot a hole through Igor’s hand and clip your old man?”
“What?” I stare at him, suddenly feeling sick. I’ve hated my dad for most of my life, but I don’t think I wanted him dead. And I definitely liked Igor.
“I am so sorry, Igor.”
“It is good,” he exhales softly, cradling his hand to his chest.
“Dad… you okay?”
My father shifts, jaw tight. “Son. You shot me in the ass.”
Oh shit. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Don’t fucking laugh.
My dad is the first to break, a rough laugh slipping out of him, then Igor follows, then Chace, like it’s all too absurd not to. Even I start laughing before I can stop myself.
Gideon, meanwhile, is a broken, muttering mess on the floor.
“That’s what you get,” I manage between breaths, “for putting cigarettes out on me.”
“Let’s go,” Chace says, still shaking his head as he heads out, limping slightly. Igor moves to support my dad as he follows, my father dragging one leg a little behind him.
“I’ll be right with you three,” Chace calls over his shoulder, waving us on.
I step past him, already done, already finished with this.
Behind me, I hear Gideon laughing.
I reach the door.
Open it.
Step out into the corridor.
The door shuts.
The gunshots that follow are in quick succession, three cracks, echoing down the hall.
A second later, the door opens again and Chace steps out, adjusting his cuffs like he’s just wrapped up a meeting.
“God be with them.”
I glance at Chace, then back down the corridor, shaking my head.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “I thought I was bad.”
“Dad.”
“What?” Jonathon grunts.
“That bullet in your ass…”
“What about it.” He winces, as we round a corner.
“We’re even now.”
“You say shit like that… son. What did I do to you exactly, except for want the best for you. For you to be strong?”
“Strong? Dad. You put cigarettes out on me…” he pauses pushing off Igor. He hops around. Facing me.
“Trey…”
“You beat the shit out of mom. I would step in and you’d beat the fucking tar out of me…you know what, no fuck it, we aren’t even. We aren’t even close.”
“Son…”
“What?”
“Your mom was trying to kill you.”
What the fuck does that mean?
“You American families, just like Kardashian’s, eh, rabbit?
” Igor says, he pats me on the shoulder, ruining my canary cardigan with his bloody handprint.
I take it off, wrapping it around his hand.
He rolls his eyes like I am needlessly fussing, while I try to process what the fuck my dad meant by that.
Your mom was trying to kill you.