Chapter 8
Fury
By midnight I was tired as hell.
I stayed in the office longer than I intended, and by the time I finally made it out at a little after five, traffic was already in full swing.
The normal forty-minute drive from the city to Destine took an hour and fifteen minutes, which meant I was late for dinner at Aunt Josie’s.
She answered the door with a knowing nod and a warm hug.
Then she ushered me to the dining room table that I swore was as old as me and fed me until I thought I would bust.
For the next couple of hours, I enjoyed sitting in the matching recliner next to Uncle Irv and watching the basketball game.
Making time for family, for simple things like dinner, basketball, and piping hot peach cobbler with a generous scoop of vanilla bean ice cream on top, was a must at this point in my life.
Truthfully, I’d always tried to make time for family.
While usually Sunday dinners would be considered family time, my mother was big on Monday night gatherings, just like Aunt Josie.
It came from the fact that their father was a Baptist preacher and oftentimes had multiple services to preach on Sundays.
By the time he came home all he wanted was peace and quiet, which meant his chatty daughters needed to have been fed and tucked in their beds by the time he returned.
For months after my mother passed, I skipped the gatherings at Aunt Josie’s, not wanting to be around anyone if I couldn’t be with my mama on that day.
Pops was gone by then, had passed after an ambush three years before Mama suffered a heart attack.
And while I knew KC and I weren’t alone, I still felt Mama’s loss as if we were.
Until Uncle Irv showed up at my office on the compound with his shotgun.
“I’d hate to have to shoot my nephew,” Uncle Irv said, scratching his head with the hand that wasn’t holding the gun. “But if my wife sheds one more tear because you don’t show up at dinner, I’ll put a hole in your chest to match the one you must have in your head.”
Needless to say, I took my ass to dinner the very next Monday.
Not because I believed for one moment that Uncle Irv, the retired bus driver, was actually going to shoot me, but because I didn’t want to cause my aunt any more tears.
Especially, if I put a bullet in her husband’s head for daring to walk onto Ryder territory and pull a gun on me.
There had never been a man that pulled a weapon on me that lived to tell about it.
Now, after the delicious food and trash-talking on behalf of our favorite ball players, it was time for me to get to work.
The Lily of the Valley Funeral Services buildings were closed for the evening.
I cut my lights as I turned into the parking lot and drove around to the back.
I passed the manor-style brick home which housed the viewing rooms, chapel, courtesy lounge, selection room and offices, and made my way past the building where repasts were accommodated.
Proceeding down a short incline, I followed the narrow road to the right and pulled into the open spot left between two hearses.
Stepping out of the truck and locking it behind me, I glanced around the parking lot.
The remainder of the fleet of hearses were parked along the other wall, with two black vans at the end.
Heading toward the back door of the crematory, I typed in the security code and entered the building.
The floor lights, which were immediately activated once all the main lights were out, illuminated my path toward the back of the dwelling.
When I came to the supply closet door, I opened it and stepped inside, moving straight to the back of the thirty square feet space.
There, against the wall was a slender handle to a control panel.
It was usually covered by the rack that had been pushed to my left, so I slid the panel up and punched in another code.
This one required an additional step—my fingerprint—before giving the green light.
Seconds later a soft clicking sound signaled the secret door was open.
After pushing it back enough so that I could get through and close it behind me, I took the stairs down to the basement.
“Good. The gang’s all here,” I said, making my way toward the center of the spacious area.
On two of the hydraulic embalming tables, which we kept down here for occasions such as this, were the men who had decided it was a good idea to fuck with me.
I recognized Assistant District Attorney Calligan Hemmings immediately by the stupid ass ponytail he always pulled his wavy black hair into.
That hair he loved to tell everyone came from his half Italian lineage was spread over the silver tabletop to one side of his face.
His dark eyes bulged as he turned to watch my approach.
Cal and I went way back to the night he got pissy drunk in the casino and put his hand up Maleeka’s dress.
Her guards beat him until he was unconscious.
When he woke up, he was in his own bed, and I was sitting in the chair beside it.
Our conversation was short, and I generously left him with all eight fingers and one thumb.
On the table across from him, the man I presumed was Special Agent Jabari Thomas stared up at the ceiling. There was nothing special there, just the steel beams that some had hung from until their timely demise. But I suspected his focus heavenward had more of a say-my-last-prayers purpose.
Cal mumbled something around the gag that had been stuffed into his mouth, his eyes going even wider as I came closer to the table.
“Oh, don’t worry, Cal, I’m gonna give you a chance to speak your piece.”
His sigh of relief was visible by the deflated chest and shoulder motion but he had no reason to feel safe at my words.
Before he could blink again, I grabbed that ponytail in one hand, jerking that shit like I intended to pull the hair straight from his scalp.
The knife I kept sheathed at my side was at his neck in the next instant.
KC, who had been standing at the head of the table removed the gag, just as I pressed the blade into Cal’s neck and watched the drops of blood appear.
Instead of words, the first audible noise from Hemmings was a strangled gasp.
“The fuck? Fury, man …” he tried to get out, but I pressed that knife in a little deeper until tears filled his eyes.
“Now, I’m just trying to figure out when I ever gave you the impression that I’d let some bullshit like lying on me slide.”
The first tears fell as I tightened my hold on his hair. “Speak!” I stared down at him. “You’re so brave as to help that bastard over there get a warrant, you definitely got some shit you wanna get off your chest. Now’s your chance.”
Realizing it could possibly be difficult to talk with a knife slowly cutting into your neck, I eased the blade off him just a little.
If it made him feel any better, I wasn’t going to slit his throat.
He wasn’t leaving here alive tonight, but it wouldn’t be because he bled out on my expensive equipment.
“I … I …” He tried to cough but the sound that came was more like a wheezing baby. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“The fuck you mean you didn’t have a choice?” KC boomed.
Hemmings’ eyes went from me to KC before jerking back to me again. “He said I had to do it. I had to give the trafficking information to the feds, or he was going to kill my wife and daughter. I had to do it,” he whined, and more tears flowed.
My jaw tightened. “Who?”
From the other table, Jabari bucked against his restraints and Cam, who was dressed in the same white jumpsuit and shoe coverings as KC, pulled the cord on the chainsaw he held. Jabari stilled, and Cal peed his pants.
“You really fuckin’ pissin’ on my table, Cally?” KC asked with disgust.
I moved the knife, making a quick slice down the side of Cal’s face. “The name,” I gritted out as blood coated his cheek.
He yelled, tears mixing with the blood as his body began to tremble. “Fury, you have family, man. You wouldn’t do anything to put them in harm’s way. C’mon, you gotta understand.”
I nodded to KC.
“47895 Rocky River,” KC recited. “Right now, her silver Audi Q9 is parked in the driveway while she and your nine-month-old baby girl are sleeping in the beach house.”
“Don’t hurt them,” Cal begged. “Please.”
“I’d like to get home before dawn, Cal. Give me the name and this will be over for you.” I didn’t add that his wife and daughter weren’t in any real danger. We drew the line at children, and only those women who deserved our wrath were ever caught in our clutches.
“Atlas,” he blurted out. “It was tattooed on his arm. That’s all I know about him. He showed up at my office one day last week, showed me a picture of my wife picking my daughter up from daycare, and told me what to do to keep them alive.”
According to the file KC sent me this afternoon before I left the office, Mallory Hemmings put in for annual leave at the hospital where she worked, packed up their daughter and left town last Tuesday.
I didn’t know anyone named Atlas and from the look on KC’s face, he didn’t either. But I was betting Jabari knew.
Releasing my hold on Cal, I walked slowly toward the other table. Cam had switched the chainsaw off, but he was still holding that shit just above Jabari’s right kneecap, signaling he’d cut it off in the blink of an eye. I’d seen Cam do just that, a time or two, so I didn’t doubt him tonight.
Yanking the gag from Jabari’s mouth I said, “No need for formalities here, you know what I want to hear.”
“Fuck you!” he spat, and I shrugged.
Cam pulled the cord again, and this time sliced that leg off like he was carving a Thanksgiving turkey.