Page 422 of Filthy Elites

They had to understand. They had to see that defending my family mattered just as much to me as defending theirs did to them, and that someone in the Hell Kickers had done us wrong.

“Even though I’m a treacherous Noble,” I said lightly but only partly joking.

Darius scoffed. “You’re not part of your brother’s plans. The Hell Kickers’ blood that was spilled is on his hands, not yours.”

I was a much bigger part of those plans than he knew, but not in the way he’d have thought. I couldn’t help pointing out, just to prod the subject a little farther along: “There was blood spilled on the Nobles side too, you know.”

“Of course. Once someone starts shooting, we’re going to shoot back. Are you going to hold that against us?”

He blew teasingly into my hair, but my eyes had popped open wider as the full implications of his words hit me.

He was right. Oncesomeonestarted shooting, the people being shot back would retaliate.

But what if the first shooter hadn’t been on either side but somewhere else altogether?

NINETEEN

Anthea

The siteof the deal-gone-wrong was less ominous by the late afternoon light. The warehouses looked even more derelict when I could make out the cracks in the windowpanes and the crumbling bricks in greater detail. The lot’s dusty asphalt didn’t impress either.

I stalked along the same course I’d taken the first night, no faster for the increased visibility. Any tiny detail could tell the story I was hoping to uncover.

The markings in the walls where stray bullets had hit the bricks lined up with the spots where I believed each gang had been staked out… except for that one that looked oddly wide. And after several minutes of careful searching, I spotted a bit of shell casing on the asphalt much farther away in the opposite direction, off to the side, several meters from where the shipping crate now stood. A spot where I could make out a few even fainter scuff marks on the asphalt that suggested this was where it’d been shoved from afterward to make its usefulness as cover for a sniper less obvious.

I didn’t find any other evidence right there, but when I scanned the warehouses’ walls with that spot in mind, I caught sight of another bullet lodged in the bricks several meters farther from the shootout, where no one on either side would have had any business aiming. But someone firing into the fray from a more distant angle? They could have lodged one there.

Certainty gripped my gut alongside an unexpected surge of relief. No matter what had happened since then,neithergang had betrayed the other in the deal. Both the Nobles and the Hell Kickers had been incited into action by a totally separate shooter. Whoever it’d been had probably fired at each side right after the other so both had seen a man fall and assumed the other gang had been responsible.

Why wouldn’t they have? It’d been too dark to easily make out where the first shots had come from, especially when they’d have been out of the blue, taking the groups by surprise. And then they’d have been too caught up in defending themselves to talk things out.

The sniper could have crouched down behind the shipping crate while the rest of the carnage played out, fired off a few more shots at the end to drive the survivors away from the goods, and then grabbed the money and the truck and taken off with them. Leaving both sides to blame the other.

I’d bet later that night the mysterious shooter had returned to clean up as much of the evidence as possible, but it was difficult to catch everything. They wouldn’t have wanted to linger at the scene.

Why would someone have wanted to screw over both the Nobles and the Hell Kickers? That was the big question. I hadn’t heard about any other recent, significant conflicts between Ezra and another syndicate. None of the Hell Kickers had mentioned other enemies they were keeping an eye on.

I’d ask around just to be sure, but my gut already told me that this wasn’t a typical business move. It was personal.

I walked back to the area where it looked like the shipping crate had once stood, and a suspicion tickled at the back of my mind. The shooter’s stakeout spot had been closerbefore, but still quite a distance from the part of the lot where the gang men had parked, far enough that no one would have scoped it out. The gunman had wanted to be sure he’d have a clear aim at both sides without them noticing him. To hit the necessary targets in the dark would have required someone who was quite a good shot.

I couldn’t help remembering the night I’d wandered into the basement and seen a bunch of the Hell Kickers underlings goofing around with Nerf guns. How I’d watched Brant fudge his shots and then show off his perfect aim when he thought no one was watching.

He happened to have connections when it came to fencing stolen goods too. And he’d acted cagey when I’d asked him about Mick, the sole remaining survivor of that shootout on the Hell Kickers’ side.

The proof was all circumstantial at this point, but Brant was the only person close to the conflict I’d observed who seemed like a viable suspect. Griffin had motive if he’d wanted to push his agenda against the Nobles and maybe pick off a few other key underlings he might have seen as competition, but it wasn’t clear he’d had any idea the deal was even taking place, and he didn’t seem concerned that anyone might suspect him of turning on his own people. Mick must have been with his men, or they wouldn’t have continued with the deal.

Possibly some other player had sent a shooter in, but from what I’d seen, the simplest explanation was usually the correct one. There was no point in looking for other suspects farther abroad when I had one right in front of me.

Even if Brant had launched the attack, I still didn’t know why. Had it been an effort at undermining Mick, since he seemed to resent the older man for not taking him more under his wing? Pure greed, wanting to make some extra cash on the side and not caring who he hurt? I didn’t know what he’d have against the Nobles, but he might have seen them as a convenient red herring rather than having a personal vendetta against both sides.

I headed back to the Rosanos’ brownstone but didn’t go inside. Instead, I waited in the lengthening evening shadows down the street, watching the comings and goings. Brant was often around during the day, and I’d seen him in the hall shortly before I left, but I didn’t think he normally stayed overnight.

Around eight, I spotted his stocky form heading out the front door. I gripped my phone in case I needed to quickly hail an Uber, but he set off on foot. The lackeys frequently did, Brooklyn being pretty walkable and the traffic often wretched.

I followed him at a discreet distance, walking swiftly but quietly and keeping close to the buildings. He strode along quickly, not glancing back, the messenger bag he’d had with him earlier slung over his shoulder. A couple of times, he made sudden detours as if he was trying to ensure no one would be able to stay on his trail, but I didn’t let him shake me. The brief attempts at subterfuge only intensified my suspicions.

We left behind the residential streets for a commercial strip, passed some apartment buildings, and entered another shopping area. Finally, Brant ducked through the doorway of a café, its sidewalk patio closed for the evening but the lights gleaming inside.

---