Prince of Killers: A Fog City Novel

by Layla Reyne

  “Sunshine.” It had been his safe word whenever he’d played with past partners.

  Dante smiled and rested their foreheads together. “Don’t like the daylight?”

  Hawes twisted enough to run his nose down Dante’s cheek, inhaling his scent and reveling in the rough texture of his scruff. “Grew up in the fog.”

  Dante angled his face in turn, capturing Hawes’s mouth for a kiss that stole his breath. That sent wispy tentacles of tangled emotions creeping through Hawes’s veins, aimed for other more tender places. Hawes didn’t bother to sort it out right then, not with Dante dropping again to his knees. He didn’t waste time tracing the same path with his tongue that his finger had traveled earlier. He closed his mouth around Hawes’s cock and swallowed him to the root.

  Yes.

  Hawes closed his eyes and held on tight. Letting go of everything and giving himself to Dante. Getting lost in the fog had never felt so good.

  Chapter Nine

  Hawes crept down the loft stairs in darkness, not needing light to take care of the basics—relieve his bladder, brush his teeth, pop a few ibuprofen, don a dark suit with multiple layers so he could change outfits if necessary, and arm himself. Not expecting a fight, he pocketed a garrote and strapped a single knife around his calf under his pant leg.

  A text from Helena lit up his phone screen. 5 minutes.

  Hawes deleted the message, pocketed the phone along with his wallet and keys, and closed things up. He followed the faint trail of moonlight into the living area. Dante was stretched out on the couch, a book splayed facedown on his steadily moving chest, his light snores echoed by Iris’s purrs. The traitor was curled up on his feet. She blinked once at Hawes, yellow eyes acknowledging his presence, then went back to ignoring him in favor of her new human pillow.

  A pillow Hawes would’ve liked to curl up with too, if Dante would’ve let him. Instead, once Hawes had returned to earth after the best blowjob of his life, Dante had insisted he go to bed. Alone. Maybe it had something to do with Hawes dozing off against the ladder in his postorgasmic haze. He would have rallied for the chance to return the favor, but Dante had taken that possibility off the table. Hawes had been too tired to argue, and now time was too tight. He wanted to run his fingers through the long hair fanned out over the pillow, wanted to throw a leg around Dante’s waist and stretch out over the length of him, wanted to steal a long, slow kiss. Wanted to taste all of him. Unfortunately, he couldn’t do any of those things if he wanted to get out of there on time, and without waking Dante.

  Leaving him there was a risk, but one Hawes was willing to take for the warmth that bloomed in his chest at the mere thought. He also liked the thought of Dante with him on the job. He could be an asset to them, but Hawes, clearheaded after a few hours of sleep, couldn’t ignore the fact that he’d only known Dante a little over a day and that Holt hadn’t finished vetting him. While those facts hadn’t stopped Hawes from giving over his body last night, or from leaving Dante at his condo now, it did keep him from bringing Dante further into the fold.

  Other than the kill he’d witnessed in the alley, Dante had no eyes-on proof of what Hawes and his family did for a second living. And as for the alley, they were even, Hawes having witnessed Dante’s kill as well. Mutually assured destruction. But Dante hadn’t seen the rest of Hawes’s family in action, and Hawes wasn’t about to risk them too.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. Time was up. Iris gave him another blink, and Hawes put a finger to his lips, shushing her. He scratched behind her ears and took one last lingering look at Dante. Not a bad sight before leaving for work.

  Downstairs, a nondescript sedan waited at the curb, Helena behind the wheel, Amelia in the passenger seat. They didn’t look like they’d gotten much sleep either.

  “You good?” Amelia asked as he slid into the back seat.

  He nodded and asked after Holt.

  “Better,” his brother answered out of the car speakers. “Now that Lily’s finally down.”

  “You need more time?”

  “Don’t have more time,” Helena cut in. “We’re already late.” She was tense. Jobs like the one tonight tended to do that to her. As an attorney who specialized in freeing the wrongfully accused, Helena took the cases of the wrongfully acquitted personally. Which fit well with Hawes’s realignment of the organization. He and Helena were on the same page regarding targets.

  “Everything’s in place,” Amelia said as she handed him a tablet. “Jodie and Ray did a good job on the setup.”

  Hawes scrolled through the assembled case file on Walter Campbell III. Late-forties, white, rich, well-connected. Involved in local politics until he’d been accused of sexually abusing teen boys he’d met via a government-sponsored mentorship program. The charges hadn’t stuck. That’s what happened when traumatized teens overdosed on Gray Death, fentanyl-laced heroin popular on the streets; when witnesses changed their stories before they could testify; and when the abuser was fraternity brothers with the judge who tried his case. Not the same chapter, so supposedly there was no conflict of interest. Hawes called bullshit.

  “Who does he think he’s meeting tonight?”

  “A fifteen-year-old kid he picked up online,” Amelia answered.

  Hawes read through the emails between Campbell and a person he thought was an underage boy. Ray had been working him for weeks, encouraging Campbell’s promises of money and drugs. In reality, all Campbell ever left in his wake were bruises, addiction, and suicides. Hawes hoped there was an afterlife so this asshole could appreciate the irony of what was about to befall him.

  “Jodie and Ray warned him?” Another of Hawes’s new-order conditions.

  “Three different times,” Holt answered. “And I locked down his computer. Fucker hired one of my kids to go around it.” Holt’s “kids” were the homeless teens at the LGBTQ shelter Hawes regularly donated to and where Holt also volunteered his time teaching programming. The kids worshiped Holt, were loyal to him before anyone else, and Holt protected them like he’d protected Hawes growing up. This had to rankle.

  “We’re here,” Helena said as she parked in the staff lot behind one of the Tendernob’s trendy new hotels. Classy enough for Campbell’s standards, not so classy as to draw attention, and close to his marks.

  “Camera is going on loop in…” Holt’s rapid-fire typing pinged through the speakers. “Three, two, one.” The typing stopped. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

  Helena tugged on her gloves. “Plenty of time.”

  Words were at a minimum as they unfolded from the car and slipped through the hotel’s open back door. Amelia shoved a wad of cash into the hand of the waiting night manager, who also confirmed all the rooms around Campbell’s were empty. They took the service elevator up to the fifth floor, where Hawes and Helena waited, peeking around the corner as Amelia approached Campbell’s door.

  Her willowy figure was striking in a black trench, little black dress, and elbow-length gloves. Taken together with her alabaster skin, long dark hair, and bright green eyes, she made an effective Trojan horse on operations. She also wasn’t in the public eye as much as Hawes or Helena, making it easier for her to take on personas and get a foot in the door. Assuming she could get the door open. After Campbell ignored her first few knocks, she slipped a folded note under the door. It opened a moment later.

  “Good evening, Mr. Campbell.”

  He looked taken aback, surprised she’d used his real name. He’d used an alias in the emails Hawes had skimmed. Campbell glanced down at the note, then back up. “I’m sorry,” he stuttered, “I was expecting… I didn’t know he had a…”

  “Pimp,” Amelia said. “That’s the word you’re looking for. And you’re a John.”

  “I’m not—”

  She talked over his futile protest. “I meet all the new Johns first. Make sure everything is settled.”

  Campbell’s wrinkled forehead smoothed out. “You’re here to collect.”

  Blinded by h
er smile, Campbell held open the door and let her in. She kicked the rubber stopper into place, propping the door slightly ajar.

  Hawes and Helena crept around the corner to either side of the door.

  “I was worried for a moment,” Campbell said. “I specified certain—”

  “I know what you wanted.”

  “As do we.” Helena stepped into the room ahead of Hawes, who closed the door behind them. “Even if the justice system doesn’t believe it.”

  “But now,” Hawes said, “everyone will know the truth by morning, after you confess your crimes and commit suicide.”

  Campbell made a break for the door. Stupid, as there were three people between him and it. Instincts were instincts, though, and Campbell was bigger than all three of them. He probably thought he could barrel right over them, but he was nowhere near as quick as he’d been in his college running back days. It took less than a minute to wrestle him into the desk chair and strap down his limbs.

  “Who are you?” he croaked, voice trembling.

  “Do you remember Adam Wilson?” Hawes said.

  “Who?”

  Helena, standing behind the chair, reached over his shoulder and opened his laptop. “Log in,” she ordered.

  “No, you can’t make—”

  “Oh yes, we can make you.” Amelia’s gloved hand hit a pressure point that made Campbell howl. She didn’t stop until he logged in and the desktop appeared.

  “There’s a file waiting for you. My Crimes.” Hawes traded places with Helena and reached around Campbell. He clicked the mouse until Adam’s picture appeared. “That’s Adam Wilson.”

  “I don’t remember him from the trial,” Campbell said.

  “Because he’s dead,” Helena said. “You plied a fifteen-year-old kid with Gray Death, got him hooked on you and the drug, and when you found a shinier toy, you left him high and dry. He overdosed on the parting gift you left him.”

  “That’s not the name he gave me. I thought he was a professional!”

  Hawes spun his chair around and braced his gloved hands on the armrests, getting in Campbell’s face. “That doesn’t make it okay, you sick fuck.”

  At Campbell’s side, Amelia hit another pressure point, and tears sprang to his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who he was,” he cried through the pain.

  Hawes shoved back, and Helena stepped back in, her blue eyes burning with cold fury. “His father didn’t want to tarnish his memory with that farce of a trial. You were never going to be convicted. Not when you’re a former city supervisor and fraternity brothers with the judge. He should have recused himself, and you should be behind bars.”

  “I can pay you,” Campbell tried to bargain. “Or swing a city favor your way.”

  “We don’t need those things from you,” Helena hissed and spun his chair back around. “No one needs you at all.”

  Standing at the side of the desk, Hawes rotated the laptop toward him, found the confession Holt had uploaded into the My Crimes folder, and opened up the electronic signature app. “Sign it.”

  He hesitated, and Hawes thought of Lucas. Campbell’s incentive was withering by the second. He mentally reviewed Campbell’s bio. No wife and kids, but… Hawes turned from the desk to Campbell’s bag in the corner. It only took a few seconds to find what he was looking for. Fucking amateur. “You have a twelve-year-old nephew,” he said, returning to face off against Campbell across the desk. He tossed the drug paraphernalia and baggie of Gray Death onto the middle of it. “Wonder what he’d do, if he found that just lying around?” Hawes would never do such a thing, but Campbell didn’t know that.

  The leverage worked. Campbell signed the confession, and Amelia snatched up the baggie and supplies. Elastic to tie off his arm, a syringe, a lighter, and a spoon.

  “Oh God,” Campbell whimpered as she expertly set up everything.

  “Pretty sure God wants nothing to do with you either,” Hawes said as Helena tied the tourniquet around his arm.

  Amelia filled the syringe. “Were you really going to shoot a kid up with this stuff?”

  “Wait, wait,” Campbell hollered, still clutching at survival straws. “I have information.”

  “I doubt it’s anything we don’t already know,” Hawes said.

  “You’re under investigation.”

  Hawes’s blood ran cold. Jodie’s and Ray’s deaths had been kept out of the news. So how did Campbell know about it? Or was this about the winery or warehouse? Or a different investigation altogether? He held up a hand, and Amelia paused, the syringe an inch from Campbell’s vein. “You have to give us more than that,” Hawes said.

  “There was a sealed document on the judge’s desk last month. I saw your company’s name.”

  Not Jodie and Ray, then. Nor the warehouse or winery. Something else. And there’d been something even more important in Campbell’s words. Hawes sprang the trap. “What name was that?”

  Campbell blanched and snapped shut his mouth, realizing his mistake too late.

  “You know who we are.”

  Campbell remained mute, but his terrified eyes, and his earlier words, said it all. Still, Hawes had to be sure. He nodded at Amelia and Helena.

  Amelia withdrew the syringe, and Helena pulled back Campbell’s pinky finger far enough to cause pain but not a break. That wouldn’t fit the picture they were creating. “Who are we?” his sister demanded.

  “Madigan!” Campbell cried, his eyes never leaving Hawes. “Hawes Madigan.”

  “You should have kept that bit to yourself.” Hawes circled the desk. “Now you’re definitely not getting out of here alive. Not that there’d been a chance before.” He held out a hand to Amelia, and she laid the syringe in his palm. “Do you know what they call me?”

  Campbell shook his head, and the sweat from the ends of his hair joined the tears streaming down his face.

  “The Prince of Killers.” This was one of those rare times Hawes liked the moniker. Not just its usefulness as a deterrent, like at the warehouse, but for the terror it brought to the guilty eyes of those who’d put fear in the eyes of innocents. This was why he did what he did. When justice failed, Hawes and his family righted the balance. He was happy to rule this kingdom, as prince or king.

  He found the protruding vein in Campbell’s arm and pressed the tip of the syringe to it, breaking the skin.

  “Wait, please!” Campbell cried.

  “Justice has waited long enough.” Hawes pressed the plunger.

  Chapter Ten

  Hawes took the stairs up to Holt’s lair two at a time. It was still dark outside, and inside most of the house was too, except for the light filtering down from the brightly lit upper level. Holt had no doubt been running on all cylinders since they’d briefed him in the car about Campbell’s nebulous warning.

  “What do we know?” Hawes asked as he crested the top stair.

  “That you’ve got a problem.”

  The answer, voiced by the last person Hawes expected, came from the far corner of the room. His grandmother sat in the rocker, a sleeping Lily in her arms, a cat on each foot, as if they’d conspired to never let her leave again. If that was the case… “Papa Cal?” Hawes asked, fearing the worst.

  “Not yet.” Rose closed her eyes and held Lily closer. “I needed to come home and check back in with reality.” She reopened her eyes and pinned Hawes to the spot. “And what do I find? A mess.”

  She always could make Hawes feel like he was doing it all wrong. She didn’t break out that imperious tone often, but when she did, nine times out of ten she was right. That was how Hawes had learned many of his most valuable lessons. He hated to think of her worried about the family and business now, when she was days from losing her husband. He unstuck himself and crossed the room. He bent to kiss Lily’s head, then Rose’s cheek. “We’ll handle it. You don’t need to worry—”

  “Please,” she said, patting his cheek. “Let me worry about something else for five minutes.” She held his stare, and in her fami
liar blue gaze was the same determination Helena had had in her eyes earlier tonight.

  “All right.” He grasped her hand, squeezing it as he stepped to her side. “We’ve got a problem. The more brains the better, especially yours.”

  Holt spun from his bank of computers and turned his face up for Amelia’s quick kiss. There were bags under his brown eyes, and his wide shoulders were slumped under the flannel. It looked like he’d slept less than Hawes lately. “I can’t find any filed docs from a month ago regarding any investigation.”

  “Did you call Kane?” Hawes asked.

  “Three times. He’s not returning my calls.”

  “He’s not our enemy here.”

  “That’s impossible,” Rose said. “He’s the police. We run an illegal operation. Don’t forget that.”

  Hawes didn’t think Kane could ever truly be their enemy, but Rose was right. Their interests, for the most part, were at odds.

  “I have court contacts I can work,” Helena said. “I’ll have better luck in the morning, in person.”

  “Do we have any idea what this is about?” Rose asked.

  “He said the company was under investigation,” Helena answered. “It could be law enforcement or the health department, for all we know.”

  “I’m running a comprehensive sweep,” Holt said. “Filings, searches, flags, assignments. If it’s on a government computer, I’ll find it.”

  An investigation, on top of trying to find a traitor, the latter of which Hawes hadn’t told Rose about yet. That was an additional stressor she didn’t need. It didn’t appear the two matters were connected, though Hawes couldn’t dismiss the possibility. Pull one string, and who knew how many others would unravel. Would he have any clothes left when he took the throne? Which would be any day now, and his family was looking to him to make sure the kingdom prevailed.

  “Okay, order of attack,” he said. “Holt, stay on top of the searches. Amelia, make sure he sleeps some too.”

  She kissed her husband’s head. “I’m on it.”