Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3)

by Lauren Gilley

  (He wouldn’t tell Nicky, because there was no sense hurting his rather delicate feelings, but it was Fox’s presence that had painted the sniper’s face with anxious sweat; that had his pulse tripping visibly in his throat. Fox had a reputation in the underworld; it was more than a little flattering.)

  “Whole lotta nothing so far,” Fox said with a shrug. “Pseudonym hired him, but there’s no way they own him. He’s too incompetent for that.”

  Phillip nodded in agreement. “I’m seeing a pattern.”

  Fox smirked. “Pseudonym hires people to do their dirty work, and then kills them off when they’re done? Yeah. Shitty way to do business.”

  “If Dad’s telling the truth, they’re shitty people, so.”

  Mention of Devin made Fox sigh. “We’re running behind.”

  “Yeah. Wrap this up, then find someplace to stick this asshole. Eden’s cop friends are ready for us.”

  “Right.” Fox turned back into the room: it was the huge walk-in pantry off the kitchen. Walls laden with shelves of canned goods, bulbs dim overhead, no windows, no way out.

  The sniper had refused to give his name. He was a young guy – younger than Fox had expected, which probably accounted for his inaccurate shooting. Sniping was a patient man’s game. Gangly, all long arms and legs, lean as his rifle, an unanticipated earnestness in his long face. He looked scared – he should be, but Fox hadn’t thought he’d show it.

  And he was American, going by his accent.

  They had him tied at wrists and ankles to a chair, and Fox approached him, eased Nicky aside with a gentle flick of his fingers.

  The larger, more physically imposing Dog gave way immediately, because Fox had a reputation at home, too.

  “Okay, kid,” Fox said. “I don’t have time to do this the hard way. Let me tell you how it’s gonna work: you’re gonna spill your guts, and we’re gonna get Pseudonym off your back, because, hard truth here, they’re planning on killing you. You can either cooperate, or Nicky can get his knuckles dirty.”

  Nicky cracked the knuckles in question, the brass over them flashing.

  The kid swallowed, throat jumping. “You’re full of shit,” he said without any real heat.

  “Am I?” Fox lifted a single brow. “Or did those guys get your Spidey senses tingling the second you met them – assuming you have any kind of sense, which, honestly, at this point, I kinda doubt.”

  That earned him a frown.

  “You’ve heard of us, right? The Dogs? If you have, then you know we play pretty fair.” That was…mostly true. “I don’t think you’ve got a beef with us; I think you were hired, and this is strictly about money. Your life’s gonna be a lot smoother – and a lot longer – if you cooperate with us now. Because, judging by the fact that a buncha idiots caught you” –

  “Hey,” Nicky protested.

  – “you’re not exactly a secret agent. You need all the help you can get.”

  The kid took a deep breath and sighed it out through his nostrils. “What happens if I don’t cooperate?”

  Fox shrugged. “We retain you.”

  “And if I do cooperate?”

  “Same thing, ‘cept we’ll let you have the good liquor.”

  The sniper huffed an unhappy breath. Shook his head. Stared at the floor a moment. Then he picked his head up, narrow jaw set. He was just a baby, really, just some kid who shouldn’t have been living this life. Fox thought suddenly, briefly, of the kid Ghost had acquired in Knoxville – Reese, who had the gaze and presence of an attack dog. This boy wasn’t anything like that; this kid was still painfully human, and he was crumbling.

  With his last vestiges of defiance, he said, “I’m not a rat.”

  Fox nodded.

  “When I take on a job, I take it seriously.”

  Fox softened his voice. “Yeah, kid. But you don’t owe these guys your honor. Or your life.”

  He dropped his head again, exposing the vulnerable knobs of vertebrae in the back of his sun-browned neck. His hair needed cutting, curling at his nape.

  There was a story there, down the ridge of his bowed back, one that Ghost Teague would have no doubt been tempted to draw out and examine. Maybe offer up an alternate ending, a new story, one that involved blood, yes, but also patches, and brotherhood, and a life on a bike that felt like flying.

  But Fox wasn’t Ghost. “What’s it gonna be?” he asked.

  The kid shrugged, and Fox read it as a gesture of defeated acquiescence. There was only so long a person could resist while tied to a chair.

  Fox said, “What’s your name?”

  Another sigh. “Evan.”

  Fox waited.

  “Evan Sanchez.”

  “You’re American?”

  “Originally.”

  “How’d they find you?”

  It was hard to tell, with his head tipped down, but it looked like he blushed. “Facebook.”

  Fox barked a startled laugh. “Shit. Are you serious?”

  “Mmhm.”

  Fox made a gesture over his shoulder for Nicky: get out your phone and check that shit out. “Your last contact with them – what did they say to you?”

  He couldn’t move much, because he was tied, but he shifted his sneaker-clad feet on the tile, the grit on the soles crackling audibly in the close space. “They…” He trailed off, took a breath. Wet his lips, nervously, and lifted his head again. His expression was naked this time, fear laid bare. “The guy I dealt with…he never gave me a name, you know? He was like something out of a movie. Suit, and sunglasses, and he never made any kind of facial expression.” His own face was incredibly expressive, brows jumping, frown almost pleading. “Real spooky dude.”

  “Generally, if you’re willing to hire a sniper, you’re pretty spooky.”

  “Yeah, but–” He pitched forward, and his ropes caught. He grimaced. “Look, I’m used to people like…” His eyes widened.

  Fox grinned. “People like us?”

  “Well…yeah. Shit, yeah, okay? Gangsters and mobsters and people with grudges, and–” His gaze flicked to Nicky, who must have moved.

  “I get it,” Fox said. “But that guy wasn’t this.”

  “No.” Evan sighed with relief this time. “No, this was…he was intense.”

  And this was just a dumb kid who was in way over his head, floundering, nothing but fingertips above the surface of the water. Something clicked into place then, and Fox understood.

  This kid was like him. Not exactly – no one was exactly – but there was something restless and ungrounded under his skin. Something that made its own rules, lived by them, died by them. Fox felt it, deep down, because he had to. Because there were only two reasons why a lanky kid advertised sniper services on Facebook: either he was the stupidest fuck alive…or he was like Fox.

  Fox studied him a long moment, and chose to believe the latter.

  “Alright, tell you what, Evan Sanchez. Come work for us, and we can make sure you don’t wind up dead on the evening news.”

  Evan’s gaze narrowed. “Why would you help me?”

  “Oh, you tried to kill me, and my girl, and my old man. I’m not going to forget about that.” He grinned with all his teeth. “Payback comes later, rest assured. But these Pseudonym fuckers are going down.”

  “Yeah, but…why would you help me?” he repeated.

  Fox shrugged. “Maybe I’m just a nice guy. Take it or leave it.”

  “I…” Evan’s jaw worked a moment; Fox could see him turning over possibilities in his head. But there was only one option for a kid like him, so he finally gave a jerky nod and said, “Take it.”

  “Smart move.” Fox turned to Nicky. “Get him something to eat, and make sure he’s locked up somewhere he can’t get out.” Then he left the room.

  Eden was waiting in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter with a cup of tea cradled in both hands. She still wore her jacket, its collar flipped up, hair ruffled from the wind. She looked soft, in that moment, big-eyed, and
pink-cheeked, and…

  He shut the thoughts down.

  But she made it hard, smile catching at the corners of her mouth. “I see what you did in there.”

  “Congratulations, you have eyes,” he deadpanned, reaching for the tea kettle she’d left on the burner. There was just enough left for a cup.

  She hummed a chuckle as she watched him root around in the cupboard for a clean mug. “Uh-huh. He reminds you of yourself, doesn’t he?”

  He heaved a put-upon sigh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, woman.” But a bolt of unpleasant energy shivered through his insides.

  She knew him.

  “That’s fine,” she said lightly. “You can deny your romantic side if you like.”

  “Romantic?” He turned to give her a cocked eyebrow. “Don’t be getting the wrong idea now, pet.”

  She met his glance with a serene one of her own. “No, never. You don’t have a romantic romantic side. But you care about things. More than you let on. You believe in letting bad people do wicked things for a good reason. You believe in the crazy kids the rest of the world wants to throw away. You believe in second chances.”

  The words went right through his ribs like clever knives. He swallowed. “Do you?”

  And he wasn’t – he realized to his great mortification – asking out of idle curiosity. Fuck. Fuck, he shouldn’t have said that.

  But Eden smiled again, melancholy this time. “That’s the problem, Charlie. I’m not sure I’ve ever known what I believe in.”

  Oh. That was…

  Phillip returned, Devin in tow. “Come on, it’s time.”

  Fox set his tea down untouched.

  Eleven

  It went like this:

  Devin climbed out of an unmarked club van, walked out of the alley, and then started down the agreed-upon street.

  A seedy part of town, battered old furniture left out beside doors, free to whichever bad home wanted it. Garbage: crisp packets, and assorted soggy leaflets, and actual leaves, and slick puddles that didn’t bear looking at too closely. The cars parked on the curbs were all more than ten years old. There were witnesses: people propped in open windows, and walking down the pavements, and two kids with the papery skin of junkies arguing on a corner.

  “Oi, Devvy, that you?” a smoke-hoarse voice called from a second-floor balcony.

  Devin paused, shaded his eyes with a hand, and grinned up at the gray-headed fool peering down at him. “Aye, Willis, you old bastard, what’ve you been up to?”

  The sound of a gunshot ripped down the street, a vicious crack. The blacktop erupted, a fat divot from a high caliber. Right beside Devin’s foot.

  “Shit!” Willis shouted.

  “Fuck!” Devin said, and ducked into a shallow doorway, hands coming up to cover his head.

  Later, while the body cooled on the pavement, resting beneath a white sheet, and detectives canvassed the area for witnesses, both Willis and a woman watching from across the street would say that a red Honda motorcycle came tearing down the street shortly after the first rifle shot. That a figure all in black leather, with a blackout helmet, skidded to a stop and shot Devin Green three times with a handgun. The woman wouldn’t know what kind, but Willis would insist the gun was Russian made.

  Albie Cross knew that the bike was stolen, and that it would later be burned and left in a warehouse parking lot, stripped of serial number, DNA evidence, and fingerprints. And he knew that the gun was one of his much-loved contraband Skorpions, because he’d done the shooting himself.

  “I didn’t think it could be done,” Detective Hendricks greeted quietly as Albie approached the fluttering caution tape.

  Albie gave her the barest scrap of a smile; he’d been told it looked more like a grimace. “It worked on Sherlock, didn’t it?”

  She chuckled. “Yeah, but your father’s no Sherlock.”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  He wanted to shake her hand, but there might be watching eyes – he guessed he should hope that there were. Instead, he said, softly, “We appreciate your help with this.”

  Her grin was sharp, gaze troubled. “Better to dance with the devil you know, right? Just take care of those…people. Whoever they are.”

  “Not sure they’re people.”

  She tipped her head in silent agreement. “Take care of them. There’s only so much my department can do. We’ll call it even, then.”

  Albie gave her a little two-fingered salute and walked away.

  ~*~

  “…authorities are saying the victim was Devin Green, wanted in the UK and abroad on multiple felony charges…”

  “Turn that shit off,” Phillip said of the TV.

  “But this is my big moment…ow!” Devin trailed off with a hiss as Tommy pressed an ice pack to his bruised ribs. “Easy there, son, I’m not as young as I look.”

  Tommy said, “Sorry.”

  Fox rolled his eyes.

  Between a combination of careful aiming and intentional missing on Albie’s part, and a vest and dye packs on Devin’s, Devin had suffered only bruising – but they were some nasty bruises.

  Fox bit back a wince of sympathy as their resident medical “expert,” Flash, tugged the old man’s shirt the rest of the way off and gave him a clinical once-over. “Fractures?” he asked, passing a hand over Devin’s ribs.

  Devin grunted, but shook his head. “No. Pretty sure not.”

  Flash palpated, then nodded in agreement. “Yeah. Just rest up. Lots of painkillers.” He looked at Fox, then. “And by that I don’t mean booze.”

  “Doc, that’s the best painkiller there is,” Tommy chimed in.

  Flash looked unamused as he fished out a roll of compression bandages.

  “We’ll keep him on the straight and narrow,” Fox promised.

  They were in one of the third-floor bedrooms, this one pale ivy green, with a four-poster bed, matching dresser, and flat-screen hanging on the wall above it. On it, a severe news anchor was describing Devin’s laundry list of sins; she didn’t seem too broken up about the murder.

  Albie sat in a chair in the corner, peering between the gap in the curtains at the mews behind the building. Ever the voice of reason: “The cops won’t be able to keep a lid on this for long. The detectives at the scene, Eden’s friends, are ID’ing the body as Devin, and they’ve got a cold one that just came into the morgue – John Doe, homeless, no leads – that can pass for him. But we’ve only bought us a matter of hours. Maybe a day or two, depending on how slow the wheels of justice turn. After that, Hendricks and her people will have to claim it was a clerical error and set the record straight.”

  “Alright,” Phillip said. “Then we go in fast and hard.”

  “Leave it to me,” Fox said, getting to his feet. He’d been sitting at the foot of the bed, and was beyond antsy at this point. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Everyone else in the room opened his mouth to protest.

  And Devin beat them all to the punch. “You idiot,” he said with a snort. “You may be good, but you’re not that good. Hell, you’re not even me.”

  “Ha,” Phillip said, mildly.

  Fox shot his father a glare. “Fuck you, what are you gonna do? Break a hip?”

  Flash wrapped the bandage around his far side and Devin bit back a groan, eyes squeezing shut a moment. When he opened them, they were clear, though, fixed on Fox. “Pseudonym isn’t just after me,” he said, in the sternest voice Fox had ever heard from him. “There’s twelve other people in that file they’ll want to wipe off the face of the earth. We have to find them, and trust me, kid, they aren’t going to be willing to make contact with you. You need me on this one.”

  Need. The word got caught in Fox’s throat, and he swallowed it with difficulty. The idea that he needed him…

  “Ha,” he said. “Or I could, you know, just get rid of Pseudonym, and then all of them are safe. Cut the head off the snake.”

  “You don’t even know where to look for this snake,”
Devin shot back.

  “Charlie,” Phillip said, and Fox realized his hands had curled into fists; that his nails were biting into his palms. Damn it. He had to stop reacting to things.

  Fox made himself take a step back, braced a hip against the edge of the dresser, folded his arms. Looked casual.

  He caught his reflection in the hazy glass of a framed picture; he did not look casual.

  “Charlie,” Phillip repeated. “This is a team effort at this point. The whole club is involved.”

  “I work best alone,” he said, just to be contrary. And also, because – because terror kept unfurling new dark tendrils deep in the pit of his stomach. He did usually work alone, or with just a few others. He was the fixer, the assassin, the out of town guy called in for special cases. He didn’t work with – and by necessity risk – entire chapters. “I’m fast, and I’m trained, and I can get in and out–”

  “We don’t know nearly enough about this company,” Phillip countered, almost gently. There was sympathy in his gaze, and Fox looked away from him, jaw clenching. “Today bought us some time – hopefully more than we even expected; I’ll put in a call to the station and see what I can finagle.”

  “Finagle?” Fox asked with a snort.

  His brother ignored him. “In the meantime, we’re handling this threat as a club. I’m going to direct resources where they’ll be of best use.”

  “Pulling rank on me, huh? That’s sweet, bro.”

  “Try not to be a raging asshole for once in your life,” Albie suggested.

  Fox flipped him the bird without looking. “Alright, boss,” he said to Phillip. “I’m a resource; direct me.” He sounded bitter, and that wasn’t something he could help.

  Phillip, the bastard, didn’t even smile when he said, “You and Dad are going to find the other twelve, secure them, and get any intel they have.”

  “Fuck.”

  “It’s the secrets that can hurt us, and that we can use against Pseudonym. Miles is plugging what we already know into some kind – some kind of tech computer matrix shit, I don’t know, but we need more, and keeping Dad on the move seems like the best way to keep him alive for now.”