Page 106 of Broken Warrior
“I think Victor is right.” Jackal—because of course my cousin would get in on this stupid as fuck conversation—adjusts, shifting to face the two morons in the back row of Pope’s Escalade. Just like I know his SIG is still pointed at the serial killer along for the ride, but aside from that you’d think these three crazy bastards have been friends since they quit shitting their drawers. “If he lived inside the painting, couldn’t they just, like, set it on fire or something?”
I glance in the rear view as Marbles shakes his head. “Nah, brother. Remember when they do the little history lesson? Those Carpathian fuckers tried to kill him a dozen different ways and it didn’t work. So it’s totally possible he was living inside the painting.”
“While I appreciate the amount of effort you’re putting into your argument”—Victor pulls out a cigarette, stuffs it between his teeth and lights it with a match—“That’s not possible. He has to be some supernatural creature, not of flesh and bone, in order to use the negative energy and all the ghosts and shit. If he was a living being trapped, then he couldn’t take over and be reborn through Oscar.”
“Yeah, I guess I can see your point.” Marbles sighs. “But what about—”
“Enough!” I bark, slamming my fist down on the dash before turning to look at the Three Stooges. “Fucking shut up about that goddamn movie, and focus on what the hell we’re about to do.”
Jackal sighs with a nod as Marbles’s twisted lips lift into a wicked grin.
They are focused.
I know that, know how those two work and what happens any time we face heavy shit.
It’s part of their process, I guess.
My cousin and our VP check the fuck out when we get ready to ride into battle, the same way guys like Cy, Prez, and Crunchy switch into strategy mode. The same way Brick and Pork Chop psych themselves up with music, the way Pope goes even more stoic after doing whatever the fuck he does in those few minutes of secluded prayer before we ride out. They check out and turn off everything in order to almost power up, usually flapping their gums about bullshit as a distraction for not only themselves but everyone else too.
Each of my brothers has a process—a ritual or something like it—when we have to put our game faces on, and this shit is no different than any other time.
Well, almost.
There is actually one—two if you count the psycho sitting in the back row next to our psycho—glaring difference.
I’m sober.
My process over the last couple of years has included getting as high as humanly possible and doing a few shots of hard liquor, and while going without has made me edgier, I’m really fucking grateful for the clarity.
Going in fucked up to save my little buddy from these sick bastards wouldn’t fare well. I’d be unhinged, a loose cannon. I’d be dangerous and even more feral than I feel right now, and that could easily get James hurt. Or worse.
My stomach pitches at the thought, as I stare down these dumbasses who are here to support me and my boy.
If anything happens to James…
“You asshats got it?”
Jackal and Marbles both nod, understanding in their eyes—though the crazy almost outshines it in our VP’s mismatched ones—and when I get nothing but a devious grin from The Harvester of Bones, I scowl.
Seconds before I attempt to climb over the seats in a moving vehicle to strangle him, he responds with, “‘Command me, Lord!’”
“Bastard!” I lunge for Victor but Jackal barrels into me between the front seats as Pope grabs the back of my t-shirt. The SUV swerves as I keep reaching for the asshole grinning at me while he casually smokes his goddamn cigarette and leans back next to Marbles, who is now pointing his sawed off at him. “You think this is a fucking joke? Think it’s funny that my son was kidnapped, taken away from me by monsters that are worse than you?!”
Victor shakes his head. “On the contrary, you Goliath Birdeater. There is nothing humorous about grown men who pray on the innocent, men with too much power and not enough balls to back it up. There’s nothing funny about this entire situation but I’ll be damned if I don’t have a good fucking time while we rectify it.”
I stare at the warped-minded man in the back, scan his face, analyzing his expression, and what I find while I do is bone chilling.
He’s speaking from personal experience and the devious gleam in his eye confirms it.
I don’t know how I know that. I don’t know shit about this guy or if his real name is Victor, but I can see this situation somehow hits home for him, that it resonates differently from his countless other kills, and the sharp edges of his golden boy persona are showing a lot clearer right now. This shit with Tate and James, it’s personal for Victor and that is exactly why he left Rosco Shapiro as a gift for the Kings.
And for some reason, it puts me at ease a little.
Not like I’m all of the sudden calm and collected, and not like I’m letting my guard down while riding around with an obviously dangerous man, but knowing that this particular situation hits differently for that man makes me think he’ll be an asset.
An asset beyond what Victor has already proven to be.
After Little John told him to put some goddamn clothes on, The Ghost showed us everything he had on Rosco. A lot of it—most of it, honestly—was information I already had, shit I already knew, like the location of the motel Rosco was staying in. And that warped, sadistic vigilante had the fucking room key.
