Page 16 of Mason

Five years ago, I helped Dixon leave, establishing the hideout he’s now holed up in with Giambelli’s kid. The rundown cabin shielded him as he nursed his wounds, a drunken gunshot to the arm after an argument serving as a parting gift from Dad. I didn’t blame him for leaving one damn bit. Time settled the dust on Dad’s end, and he occasionally talks about wanting him back in our orbit, but Dixon would never. He has independence, worrying for no one but himself. He’d be a fool to come back.Especially to a man who won’t officially recognize a son born out of wedlock by giving him his last name.

I kept the secret from everyone, including Grady. I couldn’t take any chances of him making a drunken slip of the tongue. What I’d done would warrant exile from the family or worse. I’d gone against my own blood.

Shining eyes meet my headlights as a cluster of deer enter the road from a flooded bog. Slowing to a stop, I watch the family group mosey over the asphalt, only one of them having enough sense to raise its white tail in alarm.

My turn is just ahead, the old farm housing the off-the-grid shelter in the forest behind it. The owner accepted cash to keep quiet, never asking questions or poking around in the years I’ve owned the place.

As the deer shuffle into the brush, I continue on slowly before turning onto the dirt road, traveling a mile down its winding path before stopping. The rest of the way has to be traveled on foot. Only off-road vehicles can navigate its loose sand. Anyone else will end up stranded. My SUV can probably make the trek just fine, but I refuse to risk it. I’m not spending the night out here.

Silencing my phone, I step out into the night air. The underbrush on either side crackles in the breeze as I walk along the uneven road, grateful I opted for boots this morning.

No matter how many times I’ve made the trek in the past, it always spikes my heart rate. Light is nonexistent other than the moon’s glow against the road, leaving the surrounding woods a mystery. Not much in the forest can kill a man other than a rogue black bear, but I still hate the vulnerability.

The walk is bumpier than I remember, with ruts rising and falling into the earth. Good thing I didn’t drive. My city-slicking SUV isn’t made for this shit. It’s been a few years since making the walk last, and I hope it’ll be a few more until I have to do it again. If Dixon didn’t have Emily fucking Giambelli captive, I would’ve waited until at least morning, like a sane person, but he didn’t leave me with another option.

None of what he said on the phone made any sense. The sooner we speak, the better. If someone on our crew is plotting to strike, I need to know to act first and take them out. A war with Giambelli will be the end of us. But if Giambelli is behind what happened to Spencer, we have no other choice. Anthony will pay with his head, regardless of the consequences. Neither possibility sits well in my gut.

A gnarled pine leaning into the road marks that it’s time to head into the woods, but rather than finding just the distinct tree, I come across a dark truck parked beside it. It isn’t anything flashy with its rusted-out bumper, but it screams Dixon a mile away. It’s practical, much like him.

I approach carefully and tap on the driver’s side window, trying not to scare the living hell out of him if he’s still inside. That will get my head blown off.

But there wasn’t a response, deadly or otherwise.

I lean in, trying to peer inside, and in the dim moonlight, I see it’s empty, the split vinyl bench seat as barren as the surrounding forest.

Asshole.

He could’ve fucking waited. The next leg of the journey sucks a lot more, particularly at night.

I dip into the trees and onto the narrow trail overgrown with briers. Cursing, I trudge through them, scratching my legs to hell and back on the toothed vines despite my thick jeans.

If Dixon has the girl with him, I have no idea how he walked her to the cabin through this shit—especially if she fought him. A few strides in and I’m ready to quit, each sharp barb finding a new sensitive spot to stab. It’s slow-going, and I make a mental note to store a fucking machete in my car.

A half mile down, a faint glow comes from the right. Whatever Dixon has inside as a light source is the only thing giving the cabin away through its tiny front window. Chest-high brush has taken over its clearing, making it nearly invisible from the path.

Pushing through the foliage, I find the porch’s weathered steps; the boards coated in moss and squeaking at the slightest bit of pressure. The front door opens before I reach the top stair, Dixon’s head popping out of the dimly lit building with an irritated sneer.

“Took you long enough, you cunt.”

He’s barely changed in the time we’ve been apart. Still tall and wiry, a frame made for sleuthing. His sable eyes are just as dark, though his once buzzed hair has grown into a tousle of brown, the edges on end as if he’s raked his hands through the strands.

“I came straight here,” I shoot back. “We don’t all move through the bowels of the night with ease.”

He grins, pulling me in for a hug. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful man,” he teases, batting his eyelashes. “Soon you’ll be making little gun-toting babes with a neighborhood whore.”

Clapping my hand on his back, I groan. “Shut it. You sound like Mom.”

Stepping into the cabin, his face full in concern. “How is she?”

Mom was a second mother to him growing up, his own back in Chicago passing when he was thirteen. He ended moving in with us when the courts contacted Dad her death. Mom took it with grace and welcomed Dixon into our home. It was a fine joke, Dad will sometimes say while drunk. He named one son Mason and one son Dixon because he was the head of the Southern Mafia and had two women knocked up at once, one on each side of the Mason Dixon line. Then he’ll laugh uproariously. Never mind that he’ll tell the joke in front of his wife. Her feelings never matter.

I shake my head, silently answering his question. Not only do I not have the words to express how broken she is over Spencer, but I don’t want to give any identifying information away in front of Giambelli’s daughter. If I want a snowball’s chance in hell at surviving what Dixon has thrust my way, that means keeping her entirely in the dark.

His nearly onyx eyes meet mine with a sigh. “I’m sorry. Had I heard a thing, you know I would’ve stopped it.”

I know it better than I know my own name. That’s why I had to come. If Dixon didn’t hear a peep, things aren’t looking good for a quick resolution. Or a pleasant one. This has the potential to get more than messy.

I nod, moving into the main living area, which is unoccupied other than the dusty bare bone furnishings. “Where is she?”

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