I flap my hand at Tristian’s worried expression. “Tris checked us into his dad’s penthouse suite at the Maddox towers. I ordered room service, and the girls Auggy sent us from the Hideaway are already shit-faced. I doubt they’ve even realized we left.” The lack of reply tells me Killian is either impressed or thinks this is a terrible idea, and it’s not that I don’t appreciate the reluctance, it’s just that… “It’s time to end this Killer. I’m fucking sick of waiting around and doing fuck-all, and you know you are, too. It’s not us. It’s not what we do.”
There’s a brief pause, and then, “I know.”
Tonight is Killer Payne’s last hurrah as Forsyth University’s celebrity athlete. It’s also the night we burn our bridge with his father. This isn’t just a move we’re making. These are the moves that are going to make us.
“Just try to have a nice night,” I tell him, following Tristian out of the building and to the car. “Show her a good time. She was excited about this, you know.” I think of her on that stream on Tristian’s phone, all harried and rushed—can still hear her voice from last night, soft and so reluctantly hopeful. “I know it’s a shit night for you, but channel your inner Prince for a bit. Hold the doors for her. Get her drunk. Eat her pussy in the parking lot. You know.” I shrug. “Romance.”
“Romance,” he repeats in a numb, flat voice.
Tristian gets close enough to say into the phone, “Don’t fight with her.”
I wrestle the phone back. “Happy birthday, man. We’ve got this under control. See you on the other side.” I hang up and shoot Tristian a look. “Fucking logistics.” This dance Killer and Story have been doing is making shit a lot more complicated than it really needs to be.
“Maybe this will be good.” He shakes his head, opening the trunk. “I can’t referee everything.”
We’re silent as we pack away all the supplies, our focus slowly redirecting to the matter at hand. Killian can romance our Lady—maybe make some goddamn headway with her—and we’ll take care of the hard stuff.
Before the night is over, we’ll be one step closer to dismantling a King.
We watch from the car as Nick exits the office across the street.
It’s late enough that the office looks deserted. There are no cars around, and almost zero traffic. South Side has a way of getting empty at night, everyone either huddling up in their homes or congregating to the more exciting places. The seedy motels. The busy back alleys. The smoky gambling dens. Whatever dark corners the vampires around here are dealing dope out of.
Daniel’s office isn’t one of them.
We watch, coiled to strike, as Nick raises his arm to scratch at his shoulder.
The signal.
My knee jiggles restlessly as I watch him walk away, hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking as casual as can be. One of the perks of living around here is that people just aren’t noticed. Poor people are invisible people. It works in our favor.
“Got it,” Tristian says, holding up the device to prove the cameras are off. Daniel’s security system isn’t as high tech as the stuff the Mercers have at their disposal. “We’ve got ten minutes.”
I set the alarm on my watch and I can’t help but think it doesn’t seem like enough time. Tristian is wired, though, amped up on adrenaline as we hop out of the car, lower our ski masks, and grab the supplies. I have a moment of panic when we reach the door that Nick fucked up and it’ll be locked, or that when we open it, Daniel and his goons will be inside. But it goes off smoothly. The first floor is empty and eerily quiet.
“Spread this around,” Tristian says, handing me the gunpowder. “Get it under the curtains and on the floor. This shit is synthetic and will go up quick.”
I do as I’m told, while Tristian stashes wads of lint and accelerant-soaked fabric into various spots. Under couches, in a desk drawer, inside a lampshade, in the ceiling tiles. He’s methodical and humming, his whole body vibrating. When I’m out of gunpowder, I walk over to where he’s building a small bonfire, filled with combustible material, and tell him, “Three minutes.”
“Perfect.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out a box of matches. I admit it. I’m fucking mesmerized when he removes a single match and strikes it on the outside of the box. The match catches and sizzles, the scent of sulfur filling the air. Tristian flicks it toward the bonfire. It ignites quickly and a slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face as the fire flickers its reflection in his eyes.