Page 29 of Gonzo's Grudge
He nodded once. “Copy.”
“Dippy,” I said, “set up the dummy groups. Teach Chains and Clutch how to ask for what we already know but need to prove. Touch base with Waverly. She knows people. Waverly will phrase the requests so they don’t tip our hand.”
“On it,” Dippy said, fingers already moving like he was typing on a ghost keyboard. He was a bit odd like that but the brother was smart as they came.
“Shanks,” I said. “You and Lead sit on Walsh. Calendars. Habits. Who he drinks with, where he parks, what nights he doesn’t go home. If he trashes a burner, I want the pieces.”
Tower cracked his neck. “He jogs two nights a week after dark around the Reservoir Trail. If he trips, I’ll be there to help him up.” He said it in a way that sounded helpful and felt like a threat.
“Not yet,” Burn said, eyes cutting sideways.
“Not yet,” I echoed. “Every move needs to be calculated.”
Burn slid a card across. “Elena Cruz. Dreadnought Ledger. She hates Hampton like a religion. He cut her newsroom’s budget in half when they ran a story on the missing flood funds. She’ll print if we can give her something she can verify without coming near us.”
Disciple tucked the card away. “I’ll invite her for coffee. Make her think it was her idea.”
“Dippy, loop in Malachi the prospect,” I said, “open records and procurement. Sutter’s office will stall. Play nice, then mean. If they say it’s too burdensome, you ask for the database export from their system. They don’t get to hand you scanned PDFs that take six months to redact.”
He smiled like a scalpel. “I’ll ask for the metadata. Malachi knows all that shit.”
“Good,” I said. I looked around the table, at the faces that would go to war with me and for me. “Everyone else, sit on your hands until we’ve got things in play. No breaking, entering, or setting fires—literal or otherwise—unless I say so.”
Shanks huffed. “You getting soft?”
I let the silence answer. Shanks’s grin died first.
“Nobody breathes a word outside this room,” I finished. “We put a leak in the wrong ear, and Hampton plugs it with someone’s career. Or neck.”
Burn slid one more sheet onto the table and tapped it. “One more thing. Hampton’s got a second phone—kept in his safe at home when he’s not using it. It’s only for talking to Walsh and the PI. If we can mirror it, we get everything. But we’ll only get one shot and it’s gonna take Jake going in since he doesn’t have ink or rockers yet. I doubt he’s made Hampton’s radar as a prospect yet.”
I stared at the numbers, at the way a life can be reduced to digits that open doors. “We’re not ready. We mirror it when Devyn is ready to file and we can burn the town down before they know where the fire started.”
Burn rubbed his hands together. “So we slow cook him.”
“We starve him,” I said, voice going low. “Cut off the air he thinks he owns.”
The room vibrated with that energy only a greenlit plan can hold. It wasn’t bloodlust. Not anymore. This was purpose. Older. Meaner. Cleaner.
“Questions?” I asked.
Disciple spoke first. “You ready for the other shoe? Hampton won’t sit still. He’ll push back. You going to keep your temper when they play back?”
The truth tasted like copper. “I’m going to do whatever keeps my son breathing until we can set him free,” I said. “If that means swallowing rage, I’ll swallow. If that means spitting it, I’ll spit.”
Tower looked like he was measuring me for a verdict. “And the girl?”
I didn’t pretend not to know who she meant. The photograph on my dresser flickered in my head—Pop and me, young and laughing. “If I have to fuck her to fuck him, so be it.”
Jester let out a low whistle.
“Would I like her to not be part of this? Sure, she’s innocent. But that man looked my son in the eyes and gave him a life sentence. I can fuck his daughter and at least give it to her good. She’ll bounce back, I can’t say the same for GJ, can any of you?”
“Everything’s part of this,” Jester said, not harshly but not softly. “She is wrapped in it whether she knows it or not. In the end, she can blame her daddy dearest for his transgressions.”
“Unfortunately there are always casualties in war,” I stated before I let the gavel fall. “Dismissed.”
Chairs scraped. Brothers stood. The vault door opened to the living noise of the clubhouse—bottles clinking, a jukebox flipping from something angry to something older, tires squealing as a prospect learned too slow where not to park.
