Page 70 of Worshiping Faith

They know me.

They know better than to waste my time.

Eventually, the voices die down.

“I ain’t getting on that death trap with you,” a grizzled con finally mutters.

I cut him a look. “I give two shits if you stay.”

A few men chuckle, but most keep quiet.

I scan the room. Hard stares. Calculating. Some weighing their odds, others already decided.

“Any of you can stay,” I add. “One less asshole for me to manage and feed.”

That shuts most of them up.

They know the score.

But there’s tension in the air. Not everyone’s happy about this.

A few of the more organized ones, ex-gang leaders, guys who ran their own shit inside, exchange glances. They don’t like that they’re not in charge. That the biggest play to make is to follow me.

“You got ‘til I pull out to decide,” I say, letting the weight of my words sink in. “Give me shit, and your invitation is revoked.”

Another ripple of murmurs.

This ain’t over.

Then Irish stands.

Here we go.

The pistol we armed him with looks like an afterthought in his waistband, like he doesn’t need the steel to be dangerous. His crew, six strong, all cut from the same ruthless cloth, stand too.

The last time Irish and I pissed for territory, the headstone count in the Warden’s Graveyard set a record.

I hold his gaze, waiting.

“What you need help with, Stryker?” he asks.

That’s as close to a peace offering as we’ll ever get.

And I’ll be damned.

I nod, slow. “Could use arms. Loading up.”

That’s as much of an acceptance as he’s getting.

I pause. “A word?”

Irish doesn’t take his eyes off me. Doesn’t blink. But after a beat, he turns to his men. “Get that ship loaded.”

When I turn to leave, I catch Trip against the back wall, arms crossed. Watching.

He doesn’t say a word. Just shakes his head once.

He feels it too.

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