Page 21 of Raze
I can’t lose Nico, not like this.
The tracker leads us off the highway, into a quiet suburb where the houses are dark, lawns too neat for the kind of shit going down here.
The red dot stops at a corner, and I spot Tank’s Harley parked under a streetlight, its chrome glinting in the rain.
Nico’s nowhere in sight, but a small house across the street has a light on, curtains drawn tight. My gut says that’s the Broker’s safehouse, and Nico’s already inside or close to it.
I cut the engine, signaling Tank to do the same.
We dismount, moving low, my .45 drawn, Tank’s Glock at the ready.
The rain’s steady now, soaking my shirt, but it keeps us hidden as we cross the street. I spot Nico crouched behind a hedge, his lean frame tense, his .38 in hand.
“Pssst,” I whisper.
The boy’s eyes widen when he turns and sees me, a mix of guilt and defiance, but there’s no time for bullshit. I rush over and grab his arm—his good one—and pull him close, my voice a low growl.
“What the fuck are you doing, boy?” I hiss, my grip tight but careful. “Stealing Tank’s bike? Going after the Broker alone? You trying to get yourself killed?”
Nico’s jaw sets, those blue eyes flashing.
“I’m fixing this, Raze,” the boy says. “You let the Broker go because of me. I heard Clay—he’s pissed, and you’re taking the heat. I’m not letting you lose your place because I fucked up.”
Nico’s voice cracks, and I see it—the guilt, the fear, the need to prove himself. It hits me hard, right in the chest. This kid, this hustler who’s been running his whole life, is risking everything for me.
Tank snorts, holstering his Glock, his anger softening just a fraction.
“Kid’s got guts, I’ll give him that,” Tank says, his strong arms looking imposing as ever. “But he’s getting a public spanking for jacking my ride. Right, Raze?”
Tank grins, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s only half-joking.
I laugh, short and rough, the tension easing for a second.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, my eyes still on Nico. His face flushes, and I know he’s remembering the last spanking, the way he called meDaddyin that interrogation room. My cock twitches at the thought, but I shove it down.
Public spankings are one thing, but there’s business to handle first.
“Broker’s in there,” Nico whispers, nodding at the house. “I saw him through the window. He’s alone, I think. Got a gun, though.”
Nico’s voice is steady now, his fear buried under that reckless determination. I want to shake him, tell him he’s an idiot, but I also want to pull him close, keep him safe. This kid’s got me all kinds of fucked up, there’s no denying it.
“Alright,” I say, my voice low, all business. “We go in hard, fast. Tank, you take the back. Nico, you’re with me. You stay behind me, you hear? No hero shit.”
The boy nods, but I don’t trust that look in his eyes. He’s still got that .38, and I know he’s itching to use it. And a trigger-happy boy isn’t exactly part of my usual role call for a situation like this. Far from it, in fact.
Tank slips around the house, silent despite his size—which certainly isn’t always the case—while I lead Nico to the front door. The rain’s louder now, masking our steps.
I test the knob—locked, but flimsy.
One hard kick, and the door splinters open, wood cracking like a gunshot.
I’m inside in a heartbeat, my .45 raised, Nico at my back.
The living room’s dim, a single lamp casting shadows over tacky furniture and a coffee table littered with empty gin bottles. The Broker’s there, standing in the middle of the room, his cheap suit wrinkled, a revolver in his hand. His eyes narrow, but he’s not fast enough.
I fire first, two shots, clean and precise.
The Broker drops, blood blooming across his chest, his gun clattering to the floor. The asshole is dead before he hits the ground, his eyes wide, like he didn’t expect it to end like this.
