Page 29 of Mason

Instead, I keep going back to a man who’s achingly familiar. Like Anthony, he has nearly black eyes, but his are shadowed by thick brows. His straight nose drops to lips set in a hard, emotionless line, his jawline hidden by a plush black scarf.

I know I’ve seen this fucker before.

It’s driving me crazy that I can’t place his face. He’s staring directly at me, too. Through me, even. His stringy, dark hair hangs past his shoulders to blow in the breeze, the thin texture looking more like a wig than actual hair. It feels like a feature I should be able to place on a person, but I’m coming up blank.

At least until he flashes a thumbs up from his hip and slides sunglasses on.

Dixon.

* * *

I leave the service early to head to the docks, too stir crazy to sit around playing nice any longer. A skeleton crew is manning the operation, and I want to check in before heading over to Hillar Park. It’s impossible to relax about the new schedule.

It’s beginning to rain, and the storm is supposed to get uglier as the day stretches on, so it’s a good idea to drop some supplies off to my pet mafia princess before it gets too dicey to head out there. She’ll have a wet stretch of days ahead of her.

The docks are quiet, as expected, and each crew member nods and gives condolences in passing as I head inside to the main building.

The stock inside is its usual mix of models, though we’re a little light to make room for the influx Grady scheduled next week. They’re cheap movers, too, so the car lot customers might get a little snippy. The base models may appeal to some buyers, but most of ours want at least mid-range, so I’ll chew Grady out for that, eventually. It’s an honest mistake, but one he wouldn’t have made if he’d bothered to show his face around here over the years to do more than drink and do back flips off the pier. The latter might explain why he’s such an ass. Maybe he got a brain-eating amoeba from the Mississippi. God knows the river’s shit brown hue doesn’t scream health and wellness.

I’m only planning on a quick walkthrough, but an undone latch on an emergency exit in the rear office catches my eye. We always keep it secured with a flip lever. The wind off of the water rips it open otherwise. With the storm blowing in, leaving it undone will leave a foot of water everywhere by morning.

As I approach, a small metal piece wedged in the door’s frame grabs my attention. Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s moving. Explains the undone latch. Now normally, I’d probably open the door carefully just in case it’s one of our guys trapped outside, but right about now, caution can fuck off.

I turn the handle’s lock and kick the door open in the same motion, hitting whoever’s on the other side hard enough to hear a grunt over the initial gong strike of the door into bone.

I reach into my waistband and pull out my 9mm before stepping outside to identify my victim. If it’s one of the new guys, he just learned a painful lesson in not being stupid around here.

But it’s not.

A huge bald stranger lays sprawled on the wet concrete in a daze from the metal door he just took to the face. His nose spurts blood like a fucking hose, leaking all over his black rain parka and dress slacks.

I land a kick to his side before digging my heel into his chest, holding the behemoth in place as I take aim at his face. I can’t take any chances with a fucker this size. “Who the fuck are you?”

I don’t know why I’m asking. I know he’s Italian. They’ve been crawling around here like roaches for weeks. He’s the unlucky one to find himself in my crosshairs, though. And fuck if my inner rage doesn’t spike staring at this bloody bastard.

Maybe Grady’s right.

Anthony is up to something. Maybe he was just putting on a front of fake sympathy and gloom at the funeral. Why else would he send this fat son of a bitch to break into our spot when he knows we’re at Spencer’s services?

The stranger coughs, sputtering on his own blood as it floods from his nose into his mouth.

“I can’t hear you,” I grind out, resting nearly all my weight on his chest. “Looking for something, bud?”

The trigger beneath my finger begs to be pulled. I’ve waited for this since finding Spencer. Nothing would feel better than to see this worthless piece of shit’s head pop like a watermelon under a car tire.

I look around, taking in the emptiness behind the building. It’s a ghost town. No one would know any different. I can make his face match Spencer’s, place a call, and no one will ever know about it.

He chokes on a gulp of blood, spraying it across my pant leg. “No, wait, no!”

I lean forward, hovering above his face with the gun. I line the sight up with the center of his unibrow. One shot and he’s a goner. Just one shot. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

But I’m tired of the uncertainty. I need answers out of him. Now. No more games. No more bullshit. This bald fuck is going to squeal like a pig or I’m going to shoot off his fingers one by one.

“Mason, what the fuck?” Grady’s voice comes from the doorway behind me, and I silently curse fate for being such a cunt this week.

“I caught a rat,” I say, not budging from my position.

The man grunts, grabbing at his nose while his blood drips to the pavement. I am aiming a gun in his face, so I can understand Grady’s confusion to a degree. I don’t, however, understand why my darling brother is here instead of at the service still.

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