“We’ve got fuses lit everywhere,” I remind him. “We can’t afford these kinds of fuck ups so early on.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re talking about more than Fatty?” His stare hardens, and my lack of reply only pisses him off. “Come on, Dom. I told you the ink will always come first. You, of all people, know I don’t need to be checked or chained.”
I drop the blunt and run my boot over it. “All right, then tell me how you see this playing out.”
“In our favor,” he claps my shoulder, “always, brother,” he assures as Tyler pulls into the garage parking lot with Fatty in tow.
Fatty exits the truck, eyes darting between me and Sean as I take him in. Despite his nickname, he’s no more than a hundred and thirty pounds, and that’s generous. His pet name is derived from the fact that he always manages to score the best bud and rolls it like it’s his business—which he eventually made it—though he’s never gone without a day in his fucking life.
That truth is apparent as he’s led toward us wearing designer jeans and shoes with a price tag that serves as a bitch slap to half the people in our town struggling daily just to keep the lights on. Sulking as he approaches, he looks every bit the sentenced motherfucker he knows he is due to his epic screwup. Cuffs invisible, but there.
Tyler extends Fatty’s phone to me. “He’s clean. His password is in your texts.”
Opening my Camaro, I toss his phone in my passenger seat as Fatty starts pleading his case to me. “Dom—”
“You had one job,” I cut in, tone deaf to any excuse he has prepared. “Tuck and guard the van, and don’t draw any attention to it or yourself,” I relay. “Fucking simple.”
“I wasn’t in it.”
“Should we fucking thank you?” Sean snaps before voicing the question of the hour. “Fatty, what the fuck are you buying pussy for?”
“It wasn’t like that man. I didn’t even realize—”
Annoyed, I refuse him any time for the jury. “You’ve been printed. You’re of no use to us. As you well know, we don’t associate with criminals.”
His expression lights with hope. “That’s just it. My lawyer said we can probably get the charges reduced or dropped altogether because it was my first offense. You can still use me.”
“You’ve been printed. You’re out.” I relay the verdict, done with the conversation. “No exceptions.”
“Come on, Dom. Three fucking years . . . I’ve given you free green. I’ve done everything you asked.”
“If you had done what I asked, we wouldn’t be having this talk.”
Fatty turns to Sean, as many so often do.
“Come on, Sean. You know you can trust me.”
Sean backs me up, refusing him. “We can’t have you close to us, man. Not now. Maybe later on.”
I jerk my chin. “Don’t fill his head with bullshit.” I relay my decision again, temper flaring that he’s still appealing his verdict. “You’re out. Hope the pussy was worth it.”
“Dom, you’ve known me since fucking high school. You know I’m loyal. Tell me what to do to make things right.”
Fisting the collar of his overpriced T-shirt, I slam him against Tyler’s truck to ensure he hears me. Tyler objects with an “easy, man,” as I glare at Fatty, whose mouth is gaping because I’ve never been this aggressive with him—never had to be.
“What I need is someone who can follow orders to the fucking letter without putting my entire goddamn family in jeopardy. Do you have any idea how hard we’ve worked to get to this point? Don’t open your fucking mouth, Fatty. That question was rhetorical. The answer is no, you fucking don’t. You wouldn’t know anything about that, about real purpose, because all you’ve ever lived up to is your nickname . . . a fucking stoner who has no concept of real responsibility. You think this is a negotiation? It’s not. Everyone was counting on you. But you got cocky because, unlike the rest of us, this is just a hobby for you, rich boy. So, what can you do? You can remember I have your father’s fortune, your mother’s pension, and your baby sister’s college fund in the palm of my fucking hand.”
Fatty sags in my grip against Tyler’s truck. “You don’t have to threaten me, Dom. I won’t say shit. I know I fucked up. This is on me.”
I slam him back into the truck again. “You were saying?”
He swallows, and his eyes flare with the entitled anger I expect from so many like him, but he does the smart thing and keeps that shit close to his chest.
“You’re right. Threats aren’t necessary, are they, Jonathan Daniel George? So later, when that buzz lifts and you reach for your teddy bear tonight, remember I have your DNA and can use it to ruin your fucking life in a real way.” Releasing him, I hold his gaze. “Don’t forget. We silence bitter baby birds that never make it out of the nest. It would be in your best interest not to smoke that truth out of your memory. Get the fuck away from us and stay away.”
Sean speaks up to console Fatty as he pulls out his keys. “That was fucking stupid, man. You were so close.”
Fatty’s reply has me perking up as he opens Tyler’s passenger door. “It wasn’t like that. She messaged me.”
I thought as much, and now I have more work to do. Another undertaking to add to my list and, more importantly, a rogue bird to hunt.
Sipping my morning brew, I eye the Nasdaq feed scrolling at the bottom of my third screen. Satisfied with our portfolio’s progress, I type in my last few commands on a new program I designed and fire it off. In seconds, a symphony of characters begins to populate in green across my second monitor. Grin spreading at the sight of it, I mentally pat myself on the back. In the last few hours—due to some digging on our crate discovery—I unintentionally ensnared a local fly whose vibration landed heavily on my web. This had me following him into a chatroom where he made an inquiry. From there, I located his IP address and sent an update for his VPN program. Within a minute, the fly clicked on the bait that I had disguised in the software he believes keeps his web activity hidden but, in reality, gives me access to every single fucking click and command he’s ever made.
Homeland Security is a myth. We aren’t protected, we’re wired, and our behaviors are observed and collected as data to help orchestrate the strategy on how best to manipulate the masses.
The scariest part? It’s fucking working.
It’s no longer necessary for the CIA to run government experiments using hallucinogens to practice mind control. All they have to do in the present is invent trapdoors within the global technology used by the masses in the day-to-day.
Ironically, the one thing we need protection from is any side of government we ourselves are electing to power.
Suspicions confirmed after a few minutes of digging and observation, I decide to monitor this fly closely in the coming weeks—which only adds to my growing task list of things to be dealt with sooner than later. Interference at this point isn’t possible due to the ever-increasing list I’m compiling by the day regarding the club and my plans for our future targets. But when the premonition hits hard again, I decide this particular fly will have to take priority at some point.