filled with panic
as thick as mud. I slid to the ground and panted.
Jesus,
how had I got mixed up in this? First Goliath, then the beatings, then the club
business. I leaned against a tree and closed my eyes. It didn’t help.
Goliath
hadn’t cared about the accident. Hadn’t asked if I was hurt. Hadn’t even cared
where I was. He demanded only two things.
Did
I make it to Kingdom’s safehouse .
Did
I fuck it up.
What
the hell would he say when he realized the men were dead? Or was that how it
was always supposed to play out?
How
deep did this go?
The
jumbled questions blurred my composure into slippery, useless panic. I
breathed. It did nothing. The breath lodged itself between the fear of what
happened and the horrors yet to come. I coughed it out.
I
had to figure this all out. That was step one. Figure out what to do. Who to
tell.
Who
to trust.
That
answer was easy. Red.
My
heart stuttered and stopped, split down the middle like the poor bastards
trapped in the garden.
Red
was supposed to be up here. He went to find the money and rescue me from
groping hands, not hacksaws to the neck.
What
if he made it here? What if he was one of the dead?
I
pulled out my phone. My grip sweated, and the phone fell to the dirt. I dove,
murmuring my prayer as I fought with the jerking, thickened movements of my terror
to call the one bastard in the world that cared for me even after I made every
wrong decision, slept with every wrong guy, and lost myself in the wrong world.
My cousin was no saint, but Red was all I had.
I
dialed and prayed he wasn’t one of the bodies hauled into the woods.
One
ring. Two rings. Three rings and a scream tore through my throat and pooled the
blood at my feet. I tasted the panic attack, and it wouldn’t be pretty.
Four
rings.
“Martini?”
Red’s
smooth voice rolled like Crown Royal, the stuff I hid behind the bar when the
guys stumbled in after a run. My lungs might have detonated into a sob if I
hadn’t tasted a dozen expletives to fire at my cousin. I gripped the phone
until my fingers turned white.
“ Red—fucking
answer your phone when someone calls! ”
“What
the hell—”
“You’re
alive!”
He
snorted. “Hardly. I’m stuck in Philly.”
Never
had such a horrible fate sounded so perfect. I collapsed against the tree. This
time, I let the tears roll over my cheek—only because no one was looking, and
no one could use it to their advantage.
“They’re
all dead.”
“What?”
Red asked.
“All
of them. Five of them. Maybe more. They’re all dead.”
Whatever
chuckle rounded from his lips abruptly silenced. “Who is dead?”
“ They are. They’re dead. Dead, Red.”
The
rhyme sounded childish. I nearly giggled. I might have used his real name, but
Ryan was as dead as the men in the garden. Lost his scholarship, lost his way,
lost his mind. Ryan abandoned a life of medicine and potential for a different
kind of forensics. Hands-on training—crime scene investigating for those who didn’t
want to call the cops. He guaranteed a quiet and effective clean-up service for
those who needed to dispose of their vendettas as discretely as possible. Then
he dropped out of school, entered the MC, and made a name for himself as Red —someone
to call when five decapitated bodies piled in a backyard.
“Who
is dead? Jesus Christ, hold on.” Red muffled the phone with his hand. The
scratchy grumble of a street corner hummed over the line, but he ducked inside
a building and slammed a door. The sudden silence only made his question
harsher. “What the fuck is happening?”
“They’re
dead!”
“Yeah.
I get that. Who is dead, Martini? Take a fucking breath and talk to me. Christ.”
“Kingdom
MC.”
Now
it was his turn to panic.
“You’re
not serious.”
“Kingdom
MC is dead. The ones we were supposed to meet. We’re here. They’re dead.”
“Are
you sure?”
“The
headless bodies were a clue, but I’ll go back and ask if they’re horsing
as thick as mud. I slid to the ground and panted.
Jesus,
how had I got mixed up in this? First Goliath, then the beatings, then the club
business. I leaned against a tree and closed my eyes. It didn’t help.
Goliath
hadn’t cared about the accident. Hadn’t asked if I was hurt. Hadn’t even cared
where I was. He demanded only two things.
Did
I make it to Kingdom’s safehouse .
Did
I fuck it up.
What
the hell would he say when he realized the men were dead? Or was that how it
was always supposed to play out?
How
deep did this go?
The
jumbled questions blurred my composure into slippery, useless panic. I
breathed. It did nothing. The breath lodged itself between the fear of what
happened and the horrors yet to come. I coughed it out.
I
had to figure this all out. That was step one. Figure out what to do. Who to
tell.
Who
to trust.
That
answer was easy. Red.
My
heart stuttered and stopped, split down the middle like the poor bastards
trapped in the garden.
Red
was supposed to be up here. He went to find the money and rescue me from
groping hands, not hacksaws to the neck.
What
if he made it here? What if he was one of the dead?
I
pulled out my phone. My grip sweated, and the phone fell to the dirt. I dove,
murmuring my prayer as I fought with the jerking, thickened movements of my terror
to call the one bastard in the world that cared for me even after I made every
wrong decision, slept with every wrong guy, and lost myself in the wrong world.
My cousin was no saint, but Red was all I had.
I
dialed and prayed he wasn’t one of the bodies hauled into the woods.
One
ring. Two rings. Three rings and a scream tore through my throat and pooled the
blood at my feet. I tasted the panic attack, and it wouldn’t be pretty.
Four
rings.
“Martini?”
Red’s
smooth voice rolled like Crown Royal, the stuff I hid behind the bar when the
guys stumbled in after a run. My lungs might have detonated into a sob if I
hadn’t tasted a dozen expletives to fire at my cousin. I gripped the phone
until my fingers turned white.
“ Red—fucking
answer your phone when someone calls! ”
“What
the hell—”
“You’re
alive!”
He
snorted. “Hardly. I’m stuck in Philly.”
Never
had such a horrible fate sounded so perfect. I collapsed against the tree. This
time, I let the tears roll over my cheek—only because no one was looking, and
no one could use it to their advantage.
“They’re
all dead.”
“What?”
Red asked.
“All
of them. Five of them. Maybe more. They’re all dead.”
Whatever
chuckle rounded from his lips abruptly silenced. “Who is dead?”
“ They are. They’re dead. Dead, Red.”
The
rhyme sounded childish. I nearly giggled. I might have used his real name, but
Ryan was as dead as the men in the garden. Lost his scholarship, lost his way,
lost his mind. Ryan abandoned a life of medicine and potential for a different
kind of forensics. Hands-on training—crime scene investigating for those who didn’t
want to call the cops. He guaranteed a quiet and effective clean-up service for
those who needed to dispose of their vendettas as discretely as possible. Then
he dropped out of school, entered the MC, and made a name for himself as Red —someone
to call when five decapitated bodies piled in a backyard.
“Who
is dead? Jesus Christ, hold on.” Red muffled the phone with his hand. The
scratchy grumble of a street corner hummed over the line, but he ducked inside
a building and slammed a door. The sudden silence only made his question
harsher. “What the fuck is happening?”
“They’re
dead!”
“Yeah.
I get that. Who is dead, Martini? Take a fucking breath and talk to me. Christ.”
“Kingdom
MC.”
Now
it was his turn to panic.
“You’re
not serious.”
“Kingdom
MC is dead. The ones we were supposed to meet. We’re here. They’re dead.”
“Are
you sure?”
“The
headless bodies were a clue, but I’ll go back and ask if they’re horsing
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