“I don’t care,” I reply. “I didn’t come here for them. I came here for you. What’re you even doing? Let’s go.”
“First I need my things.”
He saunters over to the dresser and picks through the contents one at a time. I grit my teeth to hold back a whole host of choice words. Does it look like my time is free? With my heart rate rising, I pull a cigarette from my jacket and light it up. I’ve cut back in the last few days, but I still purchase a pack every week, sometimes more. At moments like this I wonder why I even bother trying to quit. I need something to dull the stupidity around me.
Rodger frowns at his wardrobe and walks over to the attached bathroom door.
“Please enjoy the art,” he says as he enters the bathroom. “It was all painted by our Elder’s daughter. So beautiful. So powerful. So bold.” He balls his hand into a fist and then bursts it open with wavy fingers before disappearing.
Silence fills the bedroom.
With a single chuckle Miles turns to me. “That guy puts the fart in artsy-fartsy.”
I laugh so hard I inhale a part of my damn cigarette. I cough up ash as I steady myself, but the sentiment rings true. Rodger has always been an odd kid. I don’t think he fits in with the Vice family aesthetics, so to speak, and unlike his siblings, he’s never found something he’s good at.
The sound of running fills the hallway. I lift an eyebrow and Miles shrugs. He leaves the bedroom with his gun at the ready, and I wait for Rodger to finish whatever business he has in the bathroom.
A few minutes pass and I scratch my stomach, feeling like a useless blob. What the hell is taking him so long? He better not be yankin’ it in there, or so help me I’ll—
The bedroom door opens and Miles steps through with a look of panic. “Pierce, we have problems.”
“We always have problems,” I say. “What is it this time?”
“I thought everyone was panicking because of Donny, but there are Cobras here. They’re fighting with some of the church guys downstairs. They brought guns.”
There’re Cobras here? When did that happen? I didn’t see anyone when we first drove up….
I walk over to the bedroom door and crane my head out into the hall. Robed individuals hustle into their rooms and lock the doors. Vague hints of yelling echo their way up the stairs, and I hear the distinct stomp of boots heading our way. I pull my gun and duck back into the bedroom.
“How many were there?” I ask, my voice low.
“There were eight downstairs,” Miles whispers. “And a few guys outside when I glanced out the window. I think they’re circling the building.”
Shit. I didn’t know the Cobras were so close to finding Rodger. Do they know that Miles and I are here as well? The element of surprise might be the only tool we have before getting swarmed.
I crush my cigarette underfoot as the bathroom door opens. Rodger steps out and I momentarily lose my words upon catching sight of him.
He’s a different man when wearing a suit—even if it’s a wrinkled suit without a tie. I stare, although now isn’t the time to get hot and ready to go. Rodger’s striking resemblance to his father is uncanny, and it brings back a whole host of lurid fantasies I thought long forgotten.
Miles elbows me in the arm. “What’re we doing?”
“We’re… leaving this room,” I say, ripping my gaze off Rodger. “It’s the first place they’ll check.”
“Where did you get that suit?” Miles asks, motioning to Rodger.
He pats himself. “I kept it in secret after they admitted me to the inner sanctum of pillars. There are some things in life a man can’t part with.”
“Did you happen to keep a gun?”
“A gun? Pah. Of course not. I have others to do the shooting for me. I need to be concerned with greater things in life.”
Miles gives me an odd glance before nodding to Rodger, who joins us with a smile. Unlike Nick and Guinevere, who both hold themselves like the blood of kings courses through their body, Rodger braces his weight on his bent legs and lifts his eyebrows, striking a very relaxed pose. It’s clear he doesn’t understand the urgency or danger of the situation.
“I can’t believe you tossed your smoke on the floor,” he says. “This is a historic building. It’s over a hundred years old. Could you imagine a fire? What a travesty.”
I grab him by the collar and shove him out the door. “Keep it to yourself,” I snap. “We’re leaving and you need to stay quiet. Thugs are here to bury a bullet in your head.”
“Tsk. Fine, we’ll go, but do you need to be so gruff?”
Miles enters the hall and opens the door across the way. I push Rodger in, unconcerned with his bitching and flailing. Miles locks the door, and I hear a gaggle of people storm the second story. We don’t have much time.
I spot a window and run over to it. There are small roof ledges built into the first story under most second-story windows, but will they hold our weight? I lift the window and lean out onto the sill. The men circling the house down below don’t catch sight of me. I step back into the room and mull over my options.
We aren’t far from Vice family holdings. I should call for backup.
I reach into my pocket and freeze. My cell phone is sitting on the backseat of my car. I turn to Miles. “You have your phone?”
“I still don’t have a phone,” he says. “Remember?”
Goddammit. That’s my fault.
With a frown I turn to Rodger. “Do you have a phone?”
“I gave away all earthly possessions when I joined the Pillars of Virtue,” he replies.
“Except for the suit,” Miles says. “Because you couldn’t part with it.”
“Exactly. Everything else is just a distraction I had to purge from my life. You won’t believe how enlightening the last few months of my life have been. All stress has disappeared and—”
“Do you, or do you not, have a cell phone?” I interject.
He frowns. “I do not.”
Jesus fucking Christ. I shake my head and run a hand over my face. Of course the fruit loop gave away his cell phone—what was I expecting?
“Is there a phone anywhere here?” I ask, my volume a little louder than it should be.
“In the Elder’s office.”
A bang on the bedroom door causes me to tense. I keep my handgun close and gesture to the window with a finger over my lips. There isn’t any more time.
Rodger goes out first, small grunts of displeasure escaping him with each move and step. Miles follows out after, quick to grab Rodger before he falls like an idiot. I slip onto the roof last and shut the window before balancing out across the shingles. It’s more than a ten-foot fall to the ground, and thugs are waiting in groups around the property.
We shamble around the outside of the building, careful to stay in the shade cast by the nearby trees, lest we draw unwanted attention. Once we round the corner, I gesture to a window. Miles claws his way over and opens it up, helping Rodger the entire way. I join them and half stumble inside.
It’s a study—furnished like a normal house instead of an acid-trip museum—complete with a desk, three bookshelves, and an old-fashioned vinyl player. The place looks ransacked. Books litter the floor, papers are strewn about all over, and the desk chair sits on its side in the corner. The gangbangers must’ve searched the room already.
“Where’s the Elder’s office?” I ask.
Rodger points to the door. “Out there and down the stairs. It’s the far room on the first floor, but we don’t have permission to go there.”
“My boot up the Elder’s ass is the only permission we need.”
“I’m not sure if I should use the word droll or gauche when describing you, Pierce, but I know it’s one or the other.”
“Would you keep it down?” Miles says with an edge in his voice. “We need to listen.”
I let out a single chuckle. Rodger even gets under Miles’s skin. At least it isn’t just me.
“There’s
a wine cellar with two exits,” Rodger says, ignoring Miles’s command. “And there’s a door to the cellar in the Elder’s office. We could go outside that way. It’d take us close to the garage.”
Eh. It’s as good a plan as any. I give Miles a curt nod and he returns it. We understand what needs to be done, and we take opposite sides of the door. Once things get quiet, we exit and cover each other’s backs. The stairs are close. I go down first and motion for the other two to follow.
Gunshots ring in my ears as we reach the first story. A Cobras gunman is on the far side of the front room, crouching behind a couch and haphazardly firing in our direction without leaning his head out of cover. I didn’t see him—I blame my bad eye—but now the plans have changed.
“Run,” I command as I shoot at the punk trying to kill me.
Miles grabs Rodger and manhandles him down the hall. I shoot a few holes through the upholstery and hear a grunt echo in the front room. Jogging after Miles, I know we’ll be surrounded in a matter of minutes—.45 handguns have a bang that carries.
Before we reach the Elder’s office, we’re assaulted by four guys wearing bulletproof vests. Miles and I jump into a sitting room, but Rodger slips into the room across from ours and keeps going, despite not being armed.
Where the fuck is he going? Why can’t he just listen to what I’m telling him?
“What’re we going to do?” Miles asks, his arm over his head as another round of bullets pelts the doorframe in front of us.
I shake my head. We need to get Rodger out of here, but we also need to stay alive. The hail of shots stops, and I hear the familiar sound of reloading. I tuck and roll across the narrow hall into the other room and Miles leaps after. A few gunmen shoot and one clips Miles’s slacks, the bullet grazing his calf. He groans and limps but straightens himself quick before getting to my side.
“You okay?” I ask, my tone betraying none of my panicked emotions.
“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”
I nod and we continue on.
The house is a maze. Every room has three doors, and I swear there are two major hallways that appear to be identical, right down to the art on the walls. This is to our advantage—the gunners following us take it slower.
We enter a large study and I know in my gut it’s the Elder’s office. To my horror we’re not the first ones to make it here.
Ten Cobras thugs are in the room waiting—one of which is Santiago—and they’re holding automatic rifles and spray-n-pray Uzi submachine guns. My .45 handgun doesn’t compare. They heft the weapons, and I’m certain this is the moment where I get my one-way ticket to hell, but no one fires.
“Drop your guns,” Santiago commands.
I exchange a sideways glance with Miles, and we both comply. Our guns hit the wood floor with a heavy clunk. Rodger is nowhere to be seen. Did he make it outside? Did he make it to the wine cellar before anyone else made it to the office? There are a few cultists cowering in the corner, but they’re not my concern—I can’t even get myself out of this situation.
“Get your hands up.”
I raise my hands. Miles follows my lead. One of the Cobras walks over with two pairs of handcuffs and, for a brief moment, I wonder if they’re undercover cops. The guy cuffing me smells of booze and smoke, however, dispelling my theory before it becomes a plausible explanation. How did the Cobras know to get here so fast? Miles and I barely had time to do anything before they descended upon us.
The guy rips off my jacket and holster before torquing my arms and cuffing me tight.
I want to tell them that the Vice family doesn’t pay ransom for enforcers, but that would only provoke them to shoot us both now. I wouldn’t mind if they were just shooting me—my lack of giving a damn for the past few days has given me an apathetic disposition—but I can’t stand the thought of them shooting Miles. I keep my mouth shut and ponder our situation.
Why keep us alive at all? Maybe they’re going to question me like I questioned Malloy. I guess a river grave is as good as the gutter.
Santiago walks forward. He’s the largest guy in the room, and he stands with all the brute intimidation one person could possibly have. Despite me shooting him—and Miles stabbing him—the man doesn’t show any hint of slowing down. Sure, his right arm is stiff and bandaged, but I don’t doubt he can use it. I should have aimed for bone.
“Where’s Rodger Vice?” he asks, his voice just as deep and baritone as one would expect from a throat shaped like a bulging bicep.
“If I knew, I would have found him already,” I quip, glancing around. “But I lost him during the commotion. I guess we’re both out of luck.”
Santiago chuckles. I smirk. He punches me in the gut with the force of a wrecking ball. I double over and hit the floor on my knees, sending a second wave of shock and pain through my paralyzed system. With a shudder I cough, my spittle laced with blood. It takes a full thirty seconds before I can take in air. I’ll be feeling this for a week.
Santiago effortlessly drags me up by my shoulder, digging his fingers into my flesh. With my arms behind my back, I’m open to his brutality, but I can’t find the breath needed to offer a protest.
“We don’t know where Rodger is,” Miles interjects.
Two Cobras grab his arms and pull him back, keeping him from the confrontation. I wish he wouldn’t get involved. He’s lucky Santiago isn’t taking his revenge for a stabbing.
Miles shakes his head and jerks against the guys holding him. “It’s true! I swear! Rodger ran off during the fighting. We were chasing him. He might still be nearby!”
The thugs exchange glances. Obviously none of them is the leader of this operation—they turn with questioning stares and hesitant motions. I’m certain their orders were guard the Elder’s room, and now that they’re presented with a logical course of action, they’re confused because they can’t think for themselves. Fuckin’ sheep.
Santiago must have all the brawn and brains because he glares at the four closest to the door. “Well? You heard him. Search the area. The rest of us can handle these two.”
The four funnel out.
I take in a ragged breath and find my footing. My knees are on fire, and the urge to vomit is powerful. Santiago brushes my shoulder off. “It’s just business,” he says. “You understand.”
“Yeah,” I rasp. “Business.”
“You got any other guns on you?”
I shake my head but gesture with my eyes down to my belt. “I have a few extra clips. That’s it.”
“What about your boy toy?”
“He’s got the same.”
Santiago reaches for my belt, and I tense, preparing for another sudden blow to the body. It never comes. Instead he takes my ammo and motions to the far door.
“You’re coming with us, Pierce.”
I turn my gaze to Miles. I know if I leave him alone with a group of Cobras, they’ll kill him.
“He’s coming too,” Santiago says. “Now get moving before I need to beat some compliance into you.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“DID YOU kill Malloy?”
I don’t answer.
The apartment storage room is larger than most I’ve seen. Boxes line the walls and chairs are stacked in the corners, but there’s still room for a small forklift, an industrial chain, and five grown men. The carpet is stained black from blood, and I know, despite some things being stored here, that the main purpose of the room is to beat answers from barely conscious bodies.
Two Cobras thugs hold Miles while Santiago keeps his powerful grip on my shirt, the fluorescent lighting shining off his bald head. The dim atmosphere and punch to my gut leave me feeling dizzy and drained. They took us from the cult church to this apartment building, but I don’t exactly know where we are. I guess it doesn’t matter. I don’t expect to leave.
“You should beat the fuck out of his toy,” one thug says, holding up Miles’s arm.
The other guy laughs and shakes hi
s head. “Nah, you should cut off his dick—that’s what that pedo deserves.”
Santiago chortles as he pulls me near. I brace myself for the inevitable, but Santiago doesn’t look like he’s in a rush. Damn. This’ll be terrible. I’d rather an inexperienced lummox like Brisko beat me to death than someone who’s going to take their time. I close my eyes and try to prepare myself mentally.
Drawing me close, Santiago mutters, “You didn’t kill me back at the card club.”
I glance up at him. “No,” I reply. “I wasn’t there for you.”
“I’ll let you pick,” he says in a frank and emotionless tone. “I’m either gonna question you or I’m gonna question the kid. Which is it?”
Heh. I see. He thinks he’s doing me a favor by offering to question Miles instead—I guess it would save me one final beating, but I can’t stand the thought of watching.
I shake my head. “Question me. Leave the kid out of it.”
My answer must take Santiago by surprise because he hesitates, but only for a moment. “If that’s what you want.”
He drags me back to the forklift and wrenches my handcuffed arms over my head to hang me from the prong. It’s tall enough that I have to stand on my tiptoes to prevent the metal of the cuffs from cutting into my wrists. I stare at the blood-soaked floor as Santiago rotates his head and cracks his knuckles. His bandaged arm doesn’t move as well as the other, and he avoids using it.
The peanut gallery gets giddy, and both men holding Miles offer their comments.
“This’ll be classic. We should take pictures.”
“I can’t wait until Harlan hears we killed Nicholas Pierce.”
“No one is killing him,” Santiago says. “Orders from the top.”
Both men groan, but I glance up with a smirk. “Amateur move,” I mutter, keeping my voice low so that only Santiago will hear. “You never admit to your victim that you’re not gonna kill him. It gives them hope for holding out.”
“Does it?” he whispers with a laugh. “Because I didn’t get any orders relating to your toy.”
I narrow my eyes into a glare as I realize I’ve tipped my hand. He knows I don’t want any harm to come to Miles—I picked myself to get a beating rather than the kid—which means he’s going to hold that against me. Fuck. He’s got me by the balls. It’s a no-win situation.
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