Page 24 of Isaac

"Enjoy your drinks." My voice is drowned out by the sound of their drunken laughter as I slip out of the VIP room, leaving behind the heady scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke.

In the hallway—where we have some sort of privacy because the upper floor is usually empty due to patrons hiding away in their rooms—Ricky’s composure cracks a little.

"Flynn’s been shot," he whispers in panic.

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, my anger flaring up—gasoline on an open flame.

No one touches my guys.

"Who?" I demand.

Ricky shakes his head. "I dunno, man. Hector called, said they were jumped by some gangbangers while they were workin' the Washington corner. They're on their way here now."

Fear and fury twist together inside me like barbed wire as I storm down the hallway. I don't know who dared to strike against one of my own, but I swear to God, they'll pay for it.

Gears of my mind are churning in overdrive, trying to think of a dumbass audacious enough to attack the Thoreau men while we rush downstairs. My shoe heels bite into the metal stairwell as we shoot downstairs and burst out into the labyrinthine alleyway behind the club.

The air outside is hot and even harder to breathe after the rain and each time I inhale, I feel like fire fills my lungs.

The grumbling growl of an engine precedes the big phantom-like shape of an SUV rounding a poorly lit corner. It emerges from one of the numerous back streets that belong to the web of cluttered arteries that run through Vegas' underbelly.

We rush toward it, our silhouettes growing larger against the vehicle's high beams until it sends gravel missiles in every direction while screeching to a halt just shy of us.

Hector springs out of the vehicle, leaving the engine on standby. "He’s in the back!" he yells, panting. His hands are all bloody. "Bullet’s still inside. It’s bad, boss."

I was born into this world—where human lives are like pieces on the chessboard of the rich and powerful. I’ve seen shit growing up. I’ve seen shit in prison. But someone hurting my own makes me feel…guilty.

These people are family.

These people, these so-called society discards are loyal to me to the bone.

And I’m supposed to protect them.

It’s my duty.

My responsibility.

Now though, that weight increased tenfold as I see Flynn splayed in the back seat. His blood, spilling profusely from the abdomen he’s holding on to with both hands, is smeared across faux leather like some sick reinterpretation of modern art.

In this moment, I realize I failed him.

I failed his two kids and his wife and it makes me mad.

Mad at myself.

Failure tastes bitter—its harsh sting blurs my vision into a cloudy grey. Sound bounces off around me like a muffled, overwhelming underwater echo.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I hear Jeremy’s voice mixed with Marco’s when I turn toward the panicked speech, I see them emerging from around the corner from the direction of the warehouse entrance.

Glock swings in Jeremy’s grip as he charges forward with frantic energy.

"Warehouse now!" he orders.

Ricky and I struggle to haul Flynn's barely conscious form from the claustrophobic space of an SUV. His body is limp, uncooperative like dead weight, lulling between consciousness amidst the leather seat's stale scent of fear.

"Someone call Doc!" I shout a command.

"Already did, boss," Marco calls out.

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