Page 13 of Vicious Souls

“Boss?” one of my men enquires, as I look down at the screen, watching the convoy move steadily down the street.

“Pick up after Elm,” I say, “two cars only.”

“Boss?” His confused voice filters through the comms again.

“It’s too obvious. The cars are going too slow, waiting for someone to follow.”

I get the confirmation that one of the cars is a healthy distance behind the convoy, following them to their destination.

“What now?” Marco asks coming to stand beside me.

“Now, we wait,” I tell him, looking at my personal bodyguard. Marco has been shadowing me for years, and has been my sidekick since college days.

We turn back to the screen, waiting. Forty minutes later, there is a squeal of tires as another convoy of black cars filters through the sliding gate of the compound. It makes its way down the driveway and gains speed as they hit the road and head in the opposite direction of the first convoy.

“Go!” I whisper into my comms.

My men would be so fluid, there’s no way they’d be picked up. Slowly, one after the other, I hear the confirmations come through the comms as six of our own vehicles pick up the tail at various intervals as the Murray parade makes its way toward the freeway.

I call ahead and have two cars fall into traffic in front of the Murrays. At some point, some of our men drop off and others pick up the tail. The cars are ordinary, inconspicuous, so unrelated to mob activity that no one would ever suspect the battered old Volvo or the Ford with a bad fender. There is no way they would pick up the scent, but they are cornered at all angles. I watch the little blips of our cars on the screen in front of me, tapping Pietro on the shoulder. He is an IT wizard I’d plucked out of obscurity just as the FBI were planning to raid his home for hacking into a government telecom network. I’d saved him from serving serious jail time then and he’s been grateful enough to stay with us indefinitely. It was now seven years later and it didn’t look like he was in a hurry to go anywhere.

“Where’s the nearest cemetery?” I ask him.

His long thin fingers, manicured to a fault, fly against the keyboard as he pinpoints out the graveyard on the GPS map. “There,” he points.

“Greenwood,” I whisper. “Eyes,” and I chuck my chin toward the screen, telling him to keep watching.

The men are following discreetly, continuing the same pattern of dropping off and picking up at different intervals so they don’t arouse suspicion. The last thing I need is for this operation to turn into another disaster. I have to use any means necessary to secure the Murray boy. Any means necessary.

“We’re mobile,” I speak into my comms, getting into the car with Marco and two of my other men. “Keep me updated.”

* * *

We drivetoward the cemetery in silence, our pace steady and deliberate.

“Greenwood,” I hear, through the comms unit. “They just drove through the gate.”

“Looks like any intelligence in that outfit died with Maddog Murray,” Marco mutters, not impressed that it has been that easy to find them. He enjoys the thrill of the chase, the cracking of the puzzle, the adrenaline that comes with not knowing what is around the next corner.

“The boy’s too young to rule,” I remind him. “That means Tate’s the one calling the shots. And we all know he’s no leader.”

“You think he’s going to make a move to take over?” Marco asks, and I feel his gaze searing my skin as we inch toward the cemetery gates. The mere thought of an all out turf war is enough to turn Marco on. Crazy bastard. But I suppose that’s why my father had chosen him to head my security detail; the man would literally jump in front of a bullet for the thrill of it. And he had.

“I don’t think the boy wants it. He’s out of his depth here. Either we finish him, or Tate will.”

Marco shakes his head regretfully. No matter what, the boy was a kid. And the one absolute rule of law we all followed was not to hurt women or children. I don’t know what my father has planned for the Murray boy, but it definitely doesn’t include killing him. Break him, perhaps. Keep him in captivity until he is eighteen and can sign the docks over to us, maybe. I’m not sure what he has in mind, but it doesn’t have anything to do with putting a bullet through the poor boy’s skull.

“We’ll go by foot from here,” Marco says, directing the driver to stop between two pines at the edge of the entry. I can see some of my men’s cars idling outside, out of view but not out of range, preparing to execute the plan I’ve laid out for them.

12

KINGSLEY

There is something bittersweet about laying a person in the ground and covering them in dirt, knowing you’ll never see them again. Losing my father is the single most depressing thing I’ve ever had to go through. There have been endless delays and nagging reasons why we couldn’t bury him. In truth, I didn’t understand the reason why people held onto loved ones so long to ‘mourn.’ What sort of a courtesy were you doing your loved one by keeping them locked away alone in a freezer for weeks on end? So you could have your closure? How about letting the deceased have their closure by crossing to the other side and reuniting with loved ones long gone? Tate and I had fought over the matter incessantly, and when he’d advised another week to wait would be wise, explaining it was important not to give competitors an avenue to reach me, I’d scoffed and tossed my phone at him. He’d ducked at just the right time, narrowly escaping a serious head injury, and I’d vented my disgust at having my father lay in that cold freezer for another week.

“Three weeks, Tate. Really? You want to keep him in a freezer for three weeks? To what end? I need to bury him. I need to know that he’s at peace.”

“The whole world is watching you,” he seethed. “Watching and waiting for their chance to lay claim to your father’s legacy.”

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