“Is that his name? Well, Kane is dying by inches, and he’s in constant pain. Do you want to go through that? Or would you rather be spared some of the suffering by those around you who are able. What would you want, if it were you.”
From over by the door, there was a soft curse, and Apex walked off sharply.
Rio continued to speak stridently. “That poor man’s dying is not something you can stop, but his agony is. So someone is going to help me get some heroin to test and then we’re going to take care of him.” She glanced around at all of them, her eyes narrowed. “I’m not asking for permission, gentlemen. I’m looking for partners.”
Mayhem spoke up at that. Of course he did. “As in crime? Partners in crime? Because we are sooooo good at that. I mean, we gotchu on the felony thing. Totally.”
As Lucan pictured himself slapping the guy into silence, Mayhem shrugged. “What I say wrong now?”
Sweet Jesus, was all Lucan could think.
No,” Vishous said. “The Jackal’s not going to be involved in this search for the prison camp. Period, end of.”
As he laid down the law, everyone in the King’s study looked over at him. Including George, who you’d think would have been stone cold sleeping as he lay under his master’s great carved desk, by the clawed feet of the great carved throne.
But nope. The golden retriever was alert and judging him, too, evidently.
Which just meant the dog was as nuts as the rest of them.
“The guy’s not a trained fighter,” V pointed out from his frilly silk chair. “And he’s emotionally involved. That’s a recipe for disaster if you’re talking about being out in the field. Why are we bringing a liability into a situation that’s already unstable?”
As Rhage and Butch stared at him like they were debating who had to answer the rhetorical, V looked around at all the French blue—and pictured the room redecorated with blood-red drapes and black walls. Maybe a rack in the corner. A display of whips and chains just to set the mood right.
You know, instead of Marie Antoinette, more like Metallica meets dungeons, no dragons.
No offense, Rhage, V thought as he took out a hand-rolled.
Across the way, the great Blind King leaned into his desktop, Wrath’s heavy upper body flexing, the black muscle shirt he always wore stretching to accommodate the shift in bulk as he plugged his elbows into the blotter. The tattoos of his lineage, which ran up the insides of his forearms, flashed their design, particularly as he church-steepled his fingers.
“He knows how the prison camp runs, though.” The King’s wraparound sunglasses made the rounds among the troika, connecting the dots between Rhage and Butch on the sofas and V on his satellite bergère, even though the male couldn’t see. “That’s helpful intel. He knows the people in there, the power structure, the way it functions.”
“But that was before.” V recrossed his legs and sank further into the down-stuffed cushion under his ass. “At the new site? Who knows what it’s like. And if we find it—”
“When,” Wrath cut in.
“—I don’t want to go into a raid worried about someone getting popped because they’re having a moment with their long-lost buddies. We’ve got the full Brotherhood, the Band of Bastards, and the other fighters to coordinate. That’s a lot of moving, stabbing, shooting parts—and we’re all trained for this shit. I mean, Christ.”
Over by the crackling fire, Rhage cocked an eyebrow. Then reached into the pocket of his SUNY Caldwell sweatshirt and pulled out a bag of M&M’s.
Fuck off, V mouthed as the brother jogged the shit.
“It’s the first rule of combat,” V continued. “Don’t bring civilians into a fight. You’ll just end up saving them instead of actually getting the job done.”
Butch, who was dressed in one of his slick Tom Ford suits, put his dagger hand up. “I think the Jackal’s got a helluva lot of heart, and I’m not sure why locking him out is a thing. We’re just looking for the place. When we find it, he can dematerialize to safety.”
“You think he’s going to do that?” V couldn’t believe he had to argue the obvious. “You really think that guy with ‘a helluva lot of heart’ is not going to try to save his little friends the second he gets the coordinates?”
On that note, V started patting around for his lighter so his nicotine delivery system could get its groove on. When he couldn’t find the damned thing, he cursed himself.