Page 33 of Making Choices

“No. No. No.”

“How fast is the only option you have right now, Johnny boy.” My best friend speaks with absolute assurance. “And that comes down to your answers to my questions.”

John Connor.

Someone’s parents were a fan of The Terminator.

I file away the name so I can ask Cub or Hunter about him later. It always pays to keep an eye on the families left behind in case they get wind of our involvement in their loved one’s death and decide to plan a little retribution on their behalf. That’s happened in the past, with bloody consequences, hence my choice to avoid a recurrence at all costs.

Being the sergeant-at-arms is a huge responsibility.

It’s one I watched my father thrive under up until a couple months ago when he stepped aside and nominated me to take his place. The first thing I did after sewing on his patch was to pick his brains about the layers of protection he has in place to keep the club safe.

He drove home two important points.

One. The rule that women and kids aren’t involved in underworld dealings died years ago. Wives and offspring are fair game in the twenty-first century, whether the Shamrocks agree or not, so any plans I make must always put them first.

And two. Whatever level I think is too low to stoop to is just the floor of my depravity. When the time comes that the club is wounded on my watch, all morals and ethics will fly out the window. I’ll be baying for blood. Ready to bathe in it if necessary.

He was right on both accounts.

Cherub’s abduction. Fret’s kidnap and torture. They’re the first hurts inflicted on the Shamrocks since I took the helm. The guilt I feel over them both would happily eat me alive if I let it.

I won’t.

Instead, I’ll take my pound of flesh from the cop hanging in the cellar before I move on to the next target. Once every piece of scum involved is nothing more than pig shit, I’ll make moves to take out the organisations that supported them.

And I won’t stop until the job’s done.

It won’t make Cherub and Fret whole again.

At least, I’ll be able to meet their eyes knowing I avenged them.

“I don’t kn-know nothin’ about anything,” John stammers. Venom tightens the garrotte and the fat man’s one functioning eye bulges. “Please. Please.”

“Everyone knows somethin’.”

Venom nods his head at my remark. “My very clever brother over there is right. I bet you’ve overheard plenty more than you think.”

“Easy way or the hard way?” I ask, waving the scalpel in his face. John trembles and blinks. Blood runs free from the wound beneath his left eye. He seems on the verge of passing out, so I offer him a little incentive to make his choice. The blade slices his skin like butter as I twist and turn it down his cheek to trace the petals of a four-leaf clover. “Come on, mate. Pick.”

“E-e-easy… p-p-please.”

I nod. “Smart man.”

“Tell me how you ended up bum buddies with Joseph Kingsley?” Venom dives straight into the pertinent questions. “Why did he pick you out of everyone in his goon squad?”

“I-I gamble,” John confesses. “He paid my debt… said I had to do as he said after that.”

“Hmmm, I bet that debt was to the Maddison Clan?” I muse out loud.

John inclines his head, then thinks better of it when the garrotte cuts into his skin. “Y-yes.”

“You’re a dumbarse.”

“Fuckin’ dumb as dog shit,” Venom agrees.

“W-why?”

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