Thorne put down his beer and grabbed a handful of Bugles, popping them into his mouth, one after another.
Dammit.
Norbert looked around, unsure what to do. Jerrod was addicted to pushing people like this. It gave him little pops of emotion.
Thorne felt sick. A one-in-six chance would have been far better than the odds they were both looking at now.
Two years, and he’d never emptied the gun. Usually, the person on the other end deserved it. He’d been on the other end once. Being on the other end of that barrel had been one of his greatest teachers.
It’s just that Norbert had the same color hair as Sandi, and he’d helped Thorne mend his favorite sweater during kickoff. Thorne had been trying so hard to mend it—the sweater had sentimental value—but he couldn’t do fine work with his ruined hand. Norbert had noticed, and he’d taken the sweater and done the stitches himself. It had been completely ballsy to show he sewed in front of a crew like Hangman. Thorne had been so grateful to him, though he pretty much botched the thanks. It’s just that his guard went up whenever people were nice to him, because it usually meant they wanted something from him, or else they wanted to kill him. Nobody had ever been nice to him for no reason. Except his sister.
And Nadia Volkov.
Or so he’d thought at first.
She’d made him feel like somebody special, somebody good, because she’d seen what he was and she seemed to want him all the more for it.
He crunched the Bugles in time with his pounding pulse, remembering the way Nadia had let him into the tender, private parts of her life, the way they’d secretly knocked around in other towns together, and the wild fierceness of the love he felt for her. He hadn’t understood that he’d been nothing but a brutish fuck toy to her, interchangeable and shareable. Even after he realized that, he still couldn’t stop loving her, though his love had flipped over into what he could only term lovehate. But for while, she’d made him feel like somebody good.
He crunched the Bugles so loud he couldn’t believe the whole room didn’t hear it.
He didn’t have to check the clock to know they’d eaten up maybe three minutes of intermission. At the most. He wouldn’t look at the gun, either.
Don’t look at the gun.
Norbert picked up his beer, but Thorne was pretty sure he really just wanted to run out of there. Hell, maybe Jerrod would forget the game and kick Norbert out now. Anything was possible.
The key was not to need it too much. Jerrod always sensed exactly what you didn’t want him to do and he did it. It was part of his power. Just like the universe would sense what you most desperately needed and keep it from you.
The thing was, you could never fool the universe by pretending not to need something—you had to really not need it.
It was the same with fighting—the key to winning a fight was to not care if a fist or a bullet hit you, or even if you lived or died. That was the secret of the Samurai warriors. Thorne could easily get into the space where he didn’t care if he lived or died—it’s what made him a lethal fighter—but caring what happened to Norbert fucked everything up, just as it had with Sandi. His attachment to his sister had gotten her killed.
It’s why he operated alone, without allies. Without attachment.
Norbert stood there uncertainly.
Thorne could feel the intensity between Jerrod and Norbert waning. He breathed, opening himself to the universe, practicing perfect non-attachment. Perfect emptiness.
He thought about the men in the room. He’d fought against groups before, but these were vicious Hangman soldiers. With the element of surprise he could take out maybe half of them before they killed him, though it was possible he could take the whole group, just as it was possible he could be killed at the start.
Everything had to be allowed and welcomed. Everything permitted.
They’d all been so relieved when he had joined up—not because they wanted him around, but because they didn’t want to end up facing him in battle. But even for Thorne, staying alive inside Hangman demanded total responsiveness to the moment. Hangman was by far one of the most dangerous gangs Thorne had ever experienced, and Thorne had been inside a lot of gangs.
Thorne swung the bottle, releasing the need to stay undercover. Releasing the desire to live.
He began to breathe in his Hangman brothers, staying relaxed, feeling their access to firearms as a play of shape and color in his mind’s eye. He never planned a fight or thought ahead to his next move; you had to be perfectly in the moment—it was how you tapped the power of the universe, how you responded like an echo—or a shadow—to your opponents’ actions. That’s what Bruce Lee taught.
Back and forth his bottle went.
And then it started. Jerrod’s eyes flicked to the revolver on the table. He would pick it up now. It would give Norbert a scare, and then Jerrod would say, I was only going to show you the inside of the cylinder.
Thorne reached his awareness out to the edges of his reality, letting the motion of the scene move him like water.
His awareness rested upon Jerrod’s hand, a pale spider floating for the gun. He felt Norbert in motion too. The room tensed, but Thorne relaxed, seeing, feeling. Things slowed. Calmed.
Norbert flew at the gun
His motion jarred Jerrod’s hand.
Thorne was faster than both of them, rushing in and out before anybody could register it. He grabbed Norbert’s hair with his bad hand, like a mangled claw grasping spun gold, and wielded the piece with his good hand. “You making a move on Hangman One?” Thorne growled.
He could still get him out.
A salacious light appeared in Jerrod’s eyes. “I was only going to show you the cylinder, Norbert.”
Thorne pressed the end of the barrel to Norbert’s head, hating himself. Norbert had been so kind to him.
Norbert began again to pant.
He could feel Jerrod soak up Norbert’s fear. Gratitude never had the grit of fear. But there was another edge to Jerrod. His attention was on Thorne. “Hangman Two. How about you do the honors?”
A gift. Relief shot through him.
Everybody watched him. He could feel their curious energy. Thorne didn’t do a lot of killing. He tried to cover it with spectacular hurting, but guys noticed.
“We’ll all play,” Jerrod added, as if he sensed Thorne’s relief. “One after another.”
Damn.
Norbert tried to pull away and Miguel stepped in, grabbing him.
Thorne glanced into the lifeless eyes of Miguel. Did Miguel wish he could be the one to point the gun next? Or was he appalled? Thorne had given Miguel’s fingerprints to Dax to run back when he joined the Associates. Turned out Miguel had cut and changed them, probably with lye and a scalpel.
Norbert watched Thorne wildly. Thorne knew what Norbert saw: a scorpion-tattooed monster with short black hair and no heart. Thorne was used to it. Being on the other end of that look was his natural habitat.
“Come on, this shouldn’t take all of intermission,” Jerrod said.
But maybe it could. He could run out the clock. Or hell, he could kill the whole room.
Rules and plans only limited you; that’s what Bruce Lee said.
Bleakly, Norbert looked at the door, visible across the foyer. The door featured a circular window that let the sunshine stream through, and Thorne knew that if he could get Norbert the hell out of there, Norbert would feel that sunshine as he’d never felt it before.
“C’mon. Who goes after Thorne?” Jerrod barked. “Line up behind Thorne.” But before anybody could volunteer, Jerrod’s phone rang. Jerrod answered with a grunt.
“The fuck?” Jerrod barked into the phone, consumed with the call. “The fuck,” he said again, with different intonation. Then he flicked a stunned gaze to Thorne. Stunned. Fascinated. Appalled.
Not the kind of thing you wanted to see when under deep cover.
“Zzzzt.” Jerrod pointed to Norbert, then to the door. “Zzzzt.”
>
A dismissal.
Thorne’s blood raced. The phone call was big. Something was up.
Miguel released Norbert. Thorne pushed him gently to prod him into action. Go, Thorne thought at him. Go, go, go.
Moving slowly, eyes darting between Jerrod and Thorne, Norbert slid his leather jacket off the table. Thorne quickly and smoothly took the bullet from his pocket while all eyes were on Norbert. It rested lightly between his fingertip and his palm. He fingered the weapon as Norbert backed into the foyer, envying the newness in the kid’s eyes, willing him to hurry.
Jerrod grumbled into the phone. “The fuck,” he said again
Norbert turned and set to unlocking the carved double doors, fumbling it a bit, making enough noise to allow Thorne to slip the round back in.
“Well, we’ll find ‘em, won’t we?” Jerrod got up and walked across the room, mumbling icily. The attention of the men glommed onto him; it was unlike him to speak in anything but a bored and somewhat quizzical monotone, sociopath that he was.
Norbert finally got the door open and slipped out, shutting it quietly behind him. He would run now, faster than he ever had, and it would feel like nothing else. The horror of the game and its unexpected end would operate inside Norbert as a gift of sunshine, a gift of life. He would feel so much now.
For Thorne, it would never end. He would never be released into the sunshine. Not metaphorically, and possibly not physically, if this was his cover blown. God, Jerrod would love that.
Jerrod eyed him again.
Thorne ate some Bugles.
Only three people on the planet knew he was connected to the shadowy team of undercover operatives known as the Associates. Dax, the billionaire who ran the organization, whoever ran it with him—Thorne had never known the person’s name—and Macmillan, one of the former agents. You didn’t get deeper cover than that.
Still.
The screen filled with color and action. The hockey game had come back on, but none of Hangman watched. The real game was on Jerrod’s side of the room.
Thorne’s mind turned again to taking the room. The element of surprise was out now; they all sensed the gravity of the call, like a single-celled organism of chaos cool.
He’d met with Dax just last night. The man had forked over an updated driver’s license and some passwords. The regular Associates didn’t ever get to meet Dax; that’s how much the spymaster had bared his belly to him. You had to respect that kind of shit.
If it came to a fight, Thorne would go for Jerrod first. He’d put a foot through his throat, and there was nothing anyone in the room could do to stop him—not even opening fire could stop him. Thorne would crush Jerrod’s windpipe with everything he had left in him.
A lot of lead didn’t have to stop you if you really focused.
Jerrod listened to the caller, puffing air into his lips the way he did when he thought hard. Brows lowered. Dawning suspicion. Aimed at Thorne.
His cover. What else?
Thorne felt this wave of sadness. Yes, he wanted to kill Jerrod, but he’d given his word that he’d complete this mission for Dax first. Thorne didn’t have much in the world, but he had his word.
He also had a deep and instinctual sense of respect for Dax, even though he didn’t agree with Dax’s methods—he didn’t see how Dax could stand by, playing his long game while people on the other end of the drug trade died, and while women trapped in the brothels suffered.
Dax had assured him that more people would die in the long run if they took any type of shortcut—the head of the hydra needed to go, the Quartet of gangs had protection at the highest levels of government that needed to be identified, which meant Thorne had to take over Hangman—in a way that wouldn’t raise suspicions.
Thorne had given Dax his word—he wouldn’t have found Jerrod otherwise. Still, it was cold shit. To watch Jerrod blowing guys’ heads apart. To know about the Slaters’ notorious brothels. And he’d seen inside those sweatshops.
Jerrod put the phone down without a good-bye, looking at him almost as if he hadn’t seen him before.
Thorne swung the bottle.
“Where were you last night?” Jerrod asked. “Between ten and six this morning?”
Thorne kept the bottle swinging, fingers loose. He’d met Dax at three in the morning at a rest stop outside of Orlando. Had somebody trailed him to the meeting? Trailed Dax? “I was a lot of places last night,” Thorne said, putting an edge of wild into his words.
“Like where?”
Guys shifted, smelling trouble. Boots came off tables. Hands shifted.
Thorne smiled and eased back. “Dinner at Taco Tom. Took a drive, took a run. What is this?”
“Anyone who saw you in the predawn hours?”
“No,” Thorne said coolly. “How about you come out with it?”
“Co-op pirates hit South Fork early this morning.”
It took Thorne just a second to process this. “South Fork?”
One of the lower guys spoke up. “That co-op was full of cash and iPhones.”
“Gone,” Jerrod said.
A hush went over the room. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash and electronics were in Hangman’s part of the South Fork co-operative warehouse. The iPhones were the exchange currency of their money laundering business.
“Shit,” somebody said.
Jerrod watched Thorne. Just watched him.
Thorne wanted to laugh. Ripping off the co-op warehouses was one of the few things he actually hadn’t done. “And that’s me? I’m one of the co-op pirates? That’s the thinking here?”
Jerrod watched his eyes. “It’s what the Slaters are saying. That it’s us, helped by your intel. You were unaccounted for during both robberies.”
Right. It’s what the Slaters were saying at Jerrod’s prompting, no doubt.
“And the pirates didn’t kill anyone, and that’s your style—what do you say?” Jerrod asked. “That judo thing?”
The art of fighting without fighting, Jerrod meant. A Bruce Lee ideal. But it wasn’t really a question. “Do the co-op pirates fight like me?”
Jerrod let his tongue poke the inside of his cheek, his tell for indecision. “Drugged cookies for the guards the first time, knockout darts last night.”
“Knockout darts and drugs,” Thorne spit out. “Does that sound like my style?” He threw a leg over the side of the chair. If there was real proof, he’d be looking at the end of a barrel.
The suspicion, however, was incredibly dangerous. The last thing Thorne needed was a spotlight.
“The thing is, Thorne, both times the pirates struck…” Jerrod held up two fingers, as if Thorne needed a visual aid for the concept of two. “Both times were precisely when the most money and product sat in those co-ops. Who is in a position to know that shit?”
Thorne tilted his head, private smile, perfect relaxation.
“Only you,” Jerrod said. “That’s the point the Slaters are making. The first raid, it looked like luck. But this. You can understand why they think it was you.”
“You know I never had that kind of knowledge of Victor’s Volkov’s operations.” The truth.
Jerrod eyed him. “But maybe you did. You’re the one who split his empire when he went down. You alone would have had that insight.”
Thorne eyed him back. “Do you have to look under the crust to cut a pie into four pieces?”
Thorne had tried to look, of course. The intel really hadn’t been there.
“The other gangs think you looked,” Jerrod said. “And they think we’re using your knowledge to hit the co-ops when they’re full.”
“Those co-ops are as critical to our operations as theirs,” Thorne said.
“When has something like that stopped us?”
Yeah. Jerrod had a point—Hangman wasn’t reasonable. It was part of their brand, as Dax had rather entertainingly put it during one meeting.
“Who else could time the raids like this?” Jerrod mused in his remote way.
Thorne sure the hell didn’t know, but he had to get this fucking situation under control. “It had to happen organically,” he said. “Somebody low level in each of the Quartet gangs comparing notes, hooking up, figuring out when things would be where.”
Jerrod twisted his lips skeptically. A total long shot. He was right to doubt it.
“Fuck, man,” Thorne said. “Stealing our own shit?”
“To cover for stealing the rest of the stuff. They think we want to start a war,” Jerrod said.
Thorne frowned. A full co-op would be a criminal’s jackpot, full of Hangman’s cash and electronics, the New Tong’s heroin, the Dorsets’ guns. And the Slaters….
“Did they take the women again?”
“Yup.”
“That’s just fucked up,” somebody said, specifically not looking at Thorne.
“What the hell?” Thorne breathed. That was the mystery of the first raid—the co-op pirates took high-value items along with the Slaters’ sweatshop workers—really, you would call them slaves. If they’d wanted to get rid of them as witnesses, why not kill them where they were chained? The sweatshop workers had no value, unless you owned a sweatshop or wanted to save them. The takedowns were strong, slick operations. He couldn’t think of anybody who would be both capable of that kind of operation and interested in saving a group of sweatshop women.
It would be somebody with intricate knowledge of Thorne’s old boss, Victor. Somebody with knowledge of how the networks ran. Somebody with muscle and a streak of madness a mile wide.
Was he being framed?
“If we could get the Quartet gangs together and compare notes—” Thorne stopped there. As if any gang in the Quartet would expose their network to another. Especially now. The finger-pointing would just get worse.
One of the lower soldiers smirked. One of Jerrod’s guys. Half of Hangman was intensely loyal to Jerrod; the other half feared and tolerated him.
Thorne said, “Victor never kept the details of all four of his business silos together in any one place. There was never some file or treasure map showing all that stuff…” Thorne paused, pondered.
Into the Shadows Page 3