Page 66 of The Contract

“Zver’s moves—they’re tactical,” he warns. “Like bees bumping a predator, nudging him exactly where they want him. Positioning the swarm for the kill.”

My jaw locks, tendons drawn tighter than steel cables.

Right now, I’ve got half a mind to play spin-the-bottle with my Glock and shoot whoever it fucking points to.

But losing their confidence isn’t a risk I can take.

Patience.

Control.

I drag in a steadying breath, reminding myself this is chess, not a goddamned street brawl.

So I toss them a bone. “Once I secure the Irish alliance, do whatever the fuck you want with Zver.” I stab a finger at each of them. “Not. One. Day. Sooner.”

Hector’s smile darkens into grim satisfaction. “Shaking hands with the Keenans is like gripping a straight razor. Sooner or later, you bleed.”

My gaze slices through every man in the room, pinpointing their silent, lethal devotion. “Then when that time comes, we’ll slit their throats. With their own fucking blades.”

Unified affirmations erupt like a battle cry. Hard men ready to spill blood without question, without mercy.

Light blasts through the bunker, flooding every shadowed corner. Hector slams both fists down onto the desk, eyes blazing. “We’re live.”

Fresh air surges in, the ventilation roaring awake.

Fucking finally.

I drag in a lungful of fresh air.

Dying for this operation?

Practically a given.

Suffocating in a World War II prepper’s bunker?

Pathetic beyond words.

Dominic returns and steps close, voice pitched low. He opens a large hand stained red, revealing a battered scrap of paper. “Found this on the guy, boss. Looks like some kind of code.”

His other hand grips a cattle prod, bloodied and humming with eager violence.

I don’t bother looking, just hold out my hand. Waiting.

Dominic hesitates. Predictable from a part-time thug, part-time geek. Protective to a fault. To him, every code begs to be cracked—just like the bones of the piece of shit in the next room.

Slowly, reluctantly, he complies.

“You’ve done enough. All of you.”

Dominic’s face falls. “Sir, I just got started.” His disappointment is that of a child stripped of his favorite toy, especially as I take the cattle prod from his hand.

“I’ll finish.”

They pause, exchanging wary glances. Dominic’s stare drills into my skull like he’s two seconds from cracking it open himself to check for a functioning brain.

He’s not alone.

Every single one of my brothers has thought the exact same thing. Out loud. Frequently.

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