“You know better because they exterminate all the truth tellers.”
“You Nostradamus now?” Jeremy antagonizes due to his swelling nose and battered pride.
Stepping into his space as he retreats, I command his gaze. “Yeah, I’m a prophet, and here’s my prediction. When those doling out the selected forecast have everyone panicking about the price of an apple and a tank of gas so they can sneak more control through proposed legislation—having already taken freedoms fought for and won decades ago—we’re all fucked.” I palm his chest and lightly shove him. “That’s why we can’t get too cocky or parade around like idiots. There’s too much at stake.”
He nods, wiping his nose with his mask as I put him in a headlock and roughly knuckle his scalp. “And we already know they don’t have shit.” Breaking my hold, Jeremy looks over to me, eyes assessing as I give him due props. “Other than your shitty oversight, you did good.”
His expression lights up at my rare praise before I turn to Russell and Peter, “you too.”
Peter beams as he looks over the dollies full of merch being unloaded by recruits as Russell utters a low “thanks,” seemingly lost in his thoughts.
Pun intended, Russell is a rare bird who’s no doubt still mulling over my words. He’s made it clear his goal is to run his own chapter at some point, so he’s always paying careful attention to our words, actions, and strategies—especially mine. Of all our circle, he and I have the most in common.
Like me, Russell comes from a family of immigrants who came to the US to seek a piece of the illusion. His mother was born and raised Japanese; his father was a military brat raised on the Yokota Airbase. The second his dad was of age, he married Russell’s mother and brought her back to the States to seek his piece of the American dream. What Russell’s dad failed to realize—by not reading the fine print—is that if you gain sudden fortune of any kind, it better be in the multi-millions. Because once Uncle Sam is flagged, he’ll be coming for his portion, which is only a few percentage points short of the lion’s share. And if you spend your American Uncle’s money, he becomes a loan shark, and if you don’t pay, the reimbursement is freedom. The judge made an example out of Russell’s dad, leaving him fatherless for most of his formative years. We’re a lot alike in that Russell is also more of a man of action and rarely feels comfortable saying more than a few sentences unless he’s surrounded by us—his chosen family.
Looking over at Jeremy and Peter, I can feel the excitement of what’s brewing between us, all growing up in similar circumstances. Feral kids with no one looking for or calling us home while we did the best we could with our dealt hands.
Jeremy sniffs, his nostrils coated in red as remorse kicks in for the shit I just pulled. He’s bound to fuck up here and there, as we all are until he can fly solo. Same as Peter, whose fresh ink is in the midst of scabbing over.
Tyler enlisted Peter in a jail cell the cops had locked him in, in the hope it would scare him straight. He was an unprinted juvenile on the verge of a life of crime—which made him a prime candidate for us. What the cops didn’t know or care to recognize is that an empty stomach is a major fucking motivator. Peter had turned to thieving to keep the electricity on in the sad excuse of a trailer he resided in—which Tyler had relayed ‘had a gaping hole in the floor.’ His short stint in burglary was an attempt to feed his infant sister after his abusive Dad bailed.
Glancing between the three of them, I hate the fact that we have these particulars in common. Unlike Fatty, the birds surrounding me have major skin in the game. And it’s our job—my job—to ensure any mistakes made at this point are few and reversible, and I’ve barely had a spare second to put the time in with any of them since I got back to Triple.
“Get some rest. We’re just getting started,” I warn, pulling out my keys.
“Where you off to?” Jeremy asks, sucker punch forgiven.
“Shit to do.” More importantly, a bird to find.
“Hey, Dom,” Peter speaks up, hesitation evident before he lifts a shame-filled gaze to mine. “In our haul, I saw some coloring books and—”
“Take it,” I say, looking between the three of them. “Take whatever you want or need. Just make sure you log it with Denny.”
“Thanks, man,” Peter says, eyes alight, heading toward the compound with Jeremy. Russell hesitates before turning.
“Something on your mind, man?” I call to his back.
He stops his retreat into the building and glances back at me.
“I’m just . . . thanks, Dom.”
“It’s what we do,” I tell him. “Remember that if guilt-induced insomnia hits anytime soon.”
His lips lift. “Trust me. It won’t.”
“Good to hear.”
We share a grin before he turns to head inside. Watching him walk away to join the others in celebration, a sense of pride floods me.
It’s working.
We’re taking care of our own. It’s no longer planning and daydreaming about our future. We’re living it. All of the plotting and the effort to get to this point is proving worth it. Deciding a celebratory blunt is in order, and that there’s only one bird I want to share it with, I check my phone to see Sean hasn’t responded to my text. All hopes of celebrating with him dashed as I pull up the tracking app attached to his Nova to see he’s parked on some dead-end backroad.
No big fucking mystery as to what he’s doing—Cecelia.
Behind the wheel, I fire up my car as my phone rumbles, a text from Tyler filling my screen.
T: Got a bite on the line.
A little weight eases from my shoulders as I reply—at least Tyler’s focused.
By all means, reel it in.
The following night, Sean stands just outside his driver’s door, his phone to his ear. I kick back against my Camaro in wait, scanning the towering mountains in the pitch-black sky. He coos into the phone, catching my gaze before giving me a drawn-out wink. “You know I could tuck you in properly if you’d let me.”
Uninterested in his performance—which seems to be for my benefit—I jerk my chin to get him to hurry it along so we can get to work.
“Agree to disagree,” Sean replies, ignoring my prompt. “You never did tell me about your dream this morning.”
He waits patiently for her response. “I haven’t given you enough already? Ouch. You’re going to pay for that . . . me too. See you tomorrow. Night, Pup.”
Sean clips his phone closed before locking it into his Nova, his other hand holding the Glock he’s had trained on Clint since I pulled up.
Tyler found our dirty bird.
It took a few days to lure Clint in after Tyler set the trap, but Sean stepped in, taking responsibility once Tyler identified him.
Clint whimpers, kneeling at our feet, looking every bit the strung-out junkie he is. Lit by our collective headlights, his sunken eyes dart around as he tries to construct an adequate excuse to help him out of his current situation.
Sean rips off the masking tape that’s muffling Clint. When I step forward, Sean gives me an adamant shake of his head. “This is on me.”