Page 71 of Black Sheep

The footage cuts to Finnan’s office. He’s seated behind his desk with Ronan standing to one side, as usual. His instructions are simple enough. “Bolton, you go pick up the Ferrari from New Jersey with Axel. Ronan and Troy will take care of the Camaro.”

Finnan casts a glance at Ronan. A look passes between them.

“That’s it? We’re just picking up a car?” The relief in my voice is palpable. I don’t need to stand around and watch Ronan deliver a knuckle-duster sandwich to a waiter who skimmed a hundred dollars of an evening’s take. Or Troy taking a sledgehammer to a food truck because the owner is two days late with his monthly ‘stipend.’

The look in Finnan’s eyes mocks me. “Yes, boy. That’s it. It’s only a classic car worth three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, so by all means, treat it like a goddamn Sunday afternoon joy ride.”

My temper flares. My fists bunch. At the far side of the office where he does his best to appear invisible, Bolton catches my eye and shakes his head before his glassy gaze returns to the carpet. I throttle down and take a deep breath for two reasons.

One, if I succeed in pissing the old man off the way I’m dying to do, he’ll find something more unpleasant for me to do, which, depending on what it is, might mean I don’t get to see Cleo tonight. Missing the chance to see her is not an option.

Second, I may be hungover and still a little high from the lines of coke I did last night, but even from across the room, I can tell Bolton is strung so high, he’s halfway to the fucking moon. No way can he handle driving a sports car with a powerful engine like a Ferrari without smashing it into a tree and getting us both killed.

I take a step back, lower my head, and fold my hands in front of me. The compliant gesture satisfies Finnan. He issues final instructions, and I nod.

As we turn to leave, he clears his throat. “One last thing, Troy?”

“Yes, Pa?”

“Take that camera with you. Make sure you get everything on film. If we need to, we’ll use it to teach other assholes a lesson that you don’t mess with the Rutherfords.”

“Yes, Pa.”

The next clip, the one with only Ronan and Troy, flashes onto the screen. My eyes refuse to blink, my stomach turning in on itself at the look on Ronan’s face as he does what he relishes.

A warehouse with grimy windows and rusting car parts.

A man on his knees, a black cloth over his head hiding his identity. The suit he’s wearing is soiled and ripped and two sizes too large. Either he’s lost weight or the clothes don’t belong to him.

Ronan circles him slowly, a menacing figure wielding a baseball bat.

“It’s the end of the line for you, I’m afraid. I’m told you’ve become a strain on our resources, and these days we’re all about streamlining.”

The muffled sounds that come from beneath the bag tells me he’s gagged.

“What was that? Sorry, I can’t hear you.”

More incoherent noises.

Ronan sighs dramatically. “It’s okay. We don’t need to have a conversation. We’re strangers after all. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me.” He looks at the camera and winks. “This is merely a necessary dance before the final goodbye. But kudos to you for doing the right thing for your family.” He taps the bat lightly on the man’s left shoulder. He flinches out of the way. “Although I don’t know quite what that was. I was asked to tell you that the account numbers and the corresponding sums all check out. And for that, no other members of your family will suffer. That’s good news, right?”

Rough, urgent sounds.

“Sorry, this is out of my hands. I follow instructions. Same way you should’ve.”

A frantic shake of his head. Quick shuffling on his knees, as if he has any hope of getting away. For a split second, Ronan appears almost remorseful. Then his face hardens. “You brought this on yourself and on your family. Did you really think you could get away with disrespecting the Rutherfords?”

The man moans and shakes his head continually for a full minute. Then, perhaps knowing his fate is sealed, slumps onto his heels.

The first blow from the bat breaks his arm, a guttural scream echoing through the warehouse. The second is a roundhouse to his chest. He falls over groaning in agony. The third strikes his temple.

He stops moving.

Ronan tosses the bat and grabs the man by the shoulders. The camera follows as he drags him to a sky-blue car with classic lines.

A Camaro.

The trunk is already open. And there’s someone else in there. Someone less hurt than the man, if the frantic wriggling beneath the tarp is any indication. The shape of the body and the pitch of the moans tells me it’s a woman.

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