Chapter 24
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Slayer
The silent vibration of Riptide’s phone signals that the operation is live, marking our transition into phase two.
With the crooked councilwoman already in federal handcuffs, Rip gives the nod to Hazard and Serpent to kick off the next stage.
We’ve already handled the regular delivery man—neutralizing him and securing his cooperation with a payout big enough to buy his permanent silence.
This puts the prospects in control of his uniform and vehicle, granting them the ultimate cover to slip into the estate without being noticed.
“Is he scaling the light post?” Riptide asks as we watch Hazard spider monkey his way up the column. With a tool belt on his hip, he looks like he’s done this a time or two, which means another skill set is coming into the club since we often need to do things under the cover of darkness.
The kid moves with a fluid, practiced efficiency that’s almost mesmerizing to watch.
He’s navigating the metal pole with the kind of confidence that only comes from years of muscle memory.
Behind us, the mansion of the councilwoman looms like a dark fortress, its expansive windows reflecting the moonlight and the predatory energy of the men gathered in the shadows.
“You remember he was a journeyman when he came to us all those years ago, right?” I ask, teasing my friend.
I lean my weight against the frame of the van we’ve brought with us to sneak Patrick away in, my focus alternating between Hazard’s progress and the perimeter of the estate.
The heavy buzz of adrenaline is a constant presence in my chest, every clink of Hazard’s tools sounds like a thunderclap in the oppressive silence.
“The kid knows his way around high voltage better than most men know their way around a woman’s body.
It’s why he’s our best bet for cutting the feed and electricity without tripping the silent alarms.”
Riptide grunts, a short, clipped sound that signals his approval, though his eyes remain fixed on the dark shape of the manor. “I remember, just never saw him in action so it slipped my mind,” Riptide excuses.
Hazard reaches into the guts of the street’s electrical box, his movements deliberate as he severs the lifeline of the estate, and the next thing we know, the entire block turns pitch black.
The sudden absence of light is a dark shroud that swallows the mansion and the surrounding streets.
Once the power grid goes down for the neighborhood, Serpent rolls up in a beat-up cage and kills the engine, it sputters before finally dying which has us chuckling.
Damn good thing it doesn’t backfire, that’d ignite the neighbors’ curiosity, and the last thing we need are these snobbish biddies watching us carry Patrick off.
The silence that follows is quiet enough that the only noise heard in the background is those of the crickets chirping and other nighttime insects exploring, broken only by the ticking of the cooling metal of the beater as Serpent rounds the hood, snagging the fat envelope from the passenger seat before heading for the entrance.
Serpent adopts a cocky strut that’s a far cry from his typical, calculated movements, playing the part of the arrogant courier to perfection.
He shoves the powerless gate aside with a jarring clang that echoes through the sudden silence of the blackout and begins the long trek up the winding driveway toward the heart of the estate.
He moves with a purpose, knowing that Patrick is somewhere inside that darkened fortress, pacing like a caged animal as he waits for the delivery that will ultimately be his undoing.
Indiana snickers beside me in the shadows when Patrick finally swings the massive front door open, his panicked profile framed against the dim, sickly yellow glow of the foyer’s emergency lighting.
They must have a backup generator that kicked in when Hazard cut the main line, which isn’t surprising for a place this fortified, but it means Serpent has to change his play on the fly and adopt a move with more finesse.
Even from our vantage point, we can see how Patrick’s eyes are wide and frenzied, flickering with the desperate, haunted look of a man who realizes his protected world is rapidly shrinking to the size of a coffin.
Since we have no audio, all we can do is watch the silent act play out like a dark pantomime as Patrick reaches out greedily for the fat envelope.
Serpent holds the package out with one hand, a perfect, glittering distraction, while simultaneously raising his other hand, which is armed with a rag heavily saturated in chloroform.
The ambush is swift as Patrick’s fingers brush the paper, the rag is pressed firmly over his nose and mouth.
We watch from the darkness as his struggle lasts only a few, maddening seconds before his knees buckle, his eyes roll back, and he slumps uselessly into Serpent’s waiting arms.
While the snatch is being executed at the front, Icer and Shade are operating behind the scenes.
They’re keeping the estate’s security detail occupied by giving them a merry chase through the wooded perimeter, drawing them far enough away so they don’t come out front to investigate the sudden arrival of the courier or the quiet collapse of their charge.
“They’re falling like dominoes,” LoneStar muses, his voice a low hum of unadulterated satisfaction.
He watches the flawlessly timed coordination of our brothers, knowing that with the councilwoman already in federal custody and Patrick now in our grip, the carefully constructed empire of Jerome’s Dragons is finally beginning to implode.
The momentum of the endgame is ours now, and there isn’t a single thing the remaining cretins can do to stop the chain reaction we’ve started from folding in on them.
There’s something to be said for going on the offense for a change, instead of always being on the back foot defensively.
Not that it was our fault in the least—these fuckers are slippery and slimy, like a bunch of snake oil salesmen.
I watch as Serpent effortlessly maintains his hold on Patrick’s dead weight, the adrenaline of the successful snatch-and-grab still pulsing through our unit.
Every heartbeat of planning, from Hazard’s high voltage climb to the precise timing of the chloroform ambush, has converged into this single moment of total victory.
We leave the cover of the shadows near the van as Ozzie jumps into the driver’s seat, the engine purring with a quiet, lethal readiness as he pulls up directly behind the courier’s vehicle.
Hazard and Serpent move efficiently as they toss Patrick into the cargo area, the dull thud of his body hitting the floorboards sounding like the final nail in the Dragons’ coffin.
Without a word, Ozzie pulls off, the tires crunching softly on the pavement as he heads toward the cemetery.
There, Patrick will be a guest of our catacombs, tucked away in the cold, lightless silence until we can find the right way to use him as a patsy to draw Jerome out from his hidey hole.
The hunt is far from over, but one of our adversaries is finally in our hands.
As Patrick slowly rouses from his chloroform sleep, he yanks his hands to rub his face but finds that he’s shackled and his eyes snap open.
The harsh reality of his situation hits him like a physical blow as he takes in the damp, stone walls of his cell.
The air is thick with the scent of earth and old rot, a stark contrast to the sterile luxury of his mother’s fortress.
Fear, raw and unadulterated, begins to claw at his throat as the realization settles in—he is no longer the predator, but the prey.
“Welcome back,” Riptide mirthlessly says, his voice a low, gnarly edge that cuts through the heavy silence of the crypt.
He leans against the cold stone wall, his leather cut creaking in the damp air as he surveys the pathetic figure before him.
“You snore, fucker. It’s a wonder Jerome ever let you run his errands with a racket like that.
” As he states that, the small, dimmed vault fills with snickers and chuckles from the brothers flanking him, the sound echoing ominously off the rough-hewn walls.
“He’s not lying,” Indiana says, stepping forward into the sickly yellow light, vouching for Rip with a smirk that never reaches his bloodthirsty eyes.
He crosses his massive arms over his chest, his presence adding to the suffocating atmosphere of the cell.
“You sound like a lawnmower whose motor needs some adjusting. You were sawing some logs, Patrick. I was almost tempted to give you a nudge just so I could get some goddamn peace and quiet while we waited for those eyelids of yours to finally snap open.”
“What do you want?” he gurgles out the question, his voice harsh. “You don’t know what you’ve done,” he warns. “It’d be in your best interest to let me go.”
I chuckle, the sound dark and devoid of any real humor.
I step out of the shadows, the flickering light of the crypt catching the steel in my eyes as I loom over him.
The arrogance in his tone is laughable, a pathetic attempt to reclaim a power that vanished the moment my brothers snatched him from his doorstep.
He still thinks he’s shielded by the councilwoman’s title and Jerome’s reputation.
“Is that so, Patrick?” I ask, my voice dropping to a quiet rumble that seems to vibrate the very stone beneath our feet.
I lean in close, smelling the remnants of the chloroform and his own rising terror.
“You’re in no position to be making demands or issuing warnings.
Your mother is currently in a federal holding cell, and Jerome is likely already looking for a way to scrub you from his books.
You aren’t a lieutenant anymore, you’re a liability. ”
His eyes widen, the pupils dilating as the reality of my words begins to sink in.
He tries to shift his weight, the heavy shackles clanking against the floor, a metallic punctuation to his fading bravado.
The silence of the catacombs is absolute, a heavy pressure that swallows his frantic breathing.
He’s spent his life as a predator in a pearl-inlaid world, but here in the dirt and the rot, he’s just a man who has finally run out of time.
“We want exactly what you’ve been trying to take from us, Patrick…
peace,” I state, my jaw tightening with a grim finality.
“And since you and Jerome have made that impossible, we’re going to use you to ensure the Dragons never draw another breath in this town.
” I straighten my spine, looking down at the weak, pathetic man who once thought he was untouchable.
“Consider yourself the bait, Patrick. And Jerome is exactly the kind of bottom-feeder who won’t be able to resist the hook. ”
“He’ll kill you all!” he shouts. His voice cracks, the volume a desperate attempt to drown out the terror vibrating in his own bones.
He yanks at the shackles, the metallic clatter echoing frantically off the stone walls.
“Nobody you care about is safe! Jerome will take you all out for this.” The threat is a last-ditch effort of a cornered animal trying to find a way back into the light, but in this lightless vault, his words carry no weight.
“You’re a sad, pathetic man,” Rip muses.
He leans back against the damp stone wall of the crypt, his shadow stretching long and distorted in the flickering light.
“You think he’ll come for you with the hopes you’ll be alive once you cross our gates?
You’re delusional.” The finality in Rip’s voice hangs heavy in the stagnant air of the vault, punctuating the cold reality that Patrick’s previous world of political shields and high-end mansions has been permanently incinerated.
Patrick begins to thrash around, the chains he’s bound with clinking against the wall as he tries to free himself. “Jerome will come get me, you’ll see, and once I’m free, I’ll help him burn your compound to the ground!”
“He still doesn’t get it,” I sigh, shaking my head. “It hasn’t sunk in how screwed he is now that we have him as a hostage.”
“Then let’s explain it to him,” Riptide mumbles.