Page 10 of Damascus & The Wildfire
I rubbed my temples. “What about Dixon? He accepted a contract earlier this week. The kill is in New York. With the distance, the risk should be minimal.”
Reaper shrugged. “We already got the wire. Have Dixon finish the job. Just remind him to not fuck it up.”
Thane rolled his eyes. “Fucking mercenary. Pain in my ass. But that payout should be enough to float us for a while.”
Linc typed away on his tablet and then glanced up. “It wouldn’t hurt to let him know we’re facing some heat right now. He needs to be more careful than usual.”
“He needs to be careful, period,” I growled. “Fucker acts like he’s invincible. Like the goddamn patch is an invisibility cloak.”
Reaper took a long sip from his coffee thermos. “Tell him to drive and wear a disguise. We don’t need a flight manifest tying him to New York. It’s a high-profile contract. It’ll make national headlines.”
I nodded. “I’ll talk to him. He was planning to head out on Monday.”
Thane stood and strolled back to the bar, this time pouring Jack Daniel’s into his now-empty coffee cup. “Find the rat and fucking end him.”
I nodded once his way as the rest of the men stood to leave. “Hold up,” I said to Hatchet. “Let’s make a plan.”
Hatchet grumbled. “Too early for this shit. Let’s just shake everyone down and see who sweats.”
I pressed my fingers to my temples to ground myself. Sometimes I wondered why I put up with him—except I knew precisely why. I trusted Hatchet with my life, even if he drove me up the goddamn wall with his antics and lack of self-control. “No. We keep this quiet. We don’t need the rat getting spooked. Linc will pull the security footage. Phone logs, too. If they’re smart, they’re using a burner. But only a fucking idiot would be a rat in our club. We need to look over the evidence before we bring anyone in.”
Hatchet rolled his eyes. “While you’re busy playing detective, someone is leaking our business to the feds. Your way is too slow.”
“And your way is too risky. If we spook the rat, he could go underground. Right now, he thinks he’s safe. We keep it that way. We can’t show our hand before we’re ready.”
Hatchet’s eyes hardened. “You always want to play it safe. Risk this, risk that. It’s always about risk with you.”
“Minimizing risk. It’s not just about the rat. The last thing we need is for our brothers to lose faith in each other. Mistrust is a cancer. We do this my way. Quiet and methodical. That’s a fucking order.”
Hatchet scoffed and stood. “Fine. But when your way fails, I’m not holding back.”
He stalked out, and I sat in silence, the weight of the club and the night before heavy on my shoulders.
Chapter Three
The morning light sliced through the blinds into my skull. I groaned as I burrowed deeper into the pillow, willing the hangover away. My stomach churned with shame and unprocessed whiskey, and my mouth tasted like I’d filled it with dryer lint before going to bed.
I was getting too old to drink more than a cocktail or two, and certainly too old to swig Jack Daniel’s straight from the bottle.
Memories from the night before leaked into my mind. My cheeks heated as the humiliation and emotional hangover burned through me. I’d lost my shit at the bonfire and then tried to drunkenly seduce Merrick.
“What was I thinking?” I groaned. My hoarse voice echoed off the walls of the empty bedroom where I’d yet to hang a single painting or picture. I stared at the stack of half-unpacked boxes in the corner as I prayed the night before had been just a bad dream.
The anniversary of Alec’s death hung over me like a storm cloud every year, and Merrick had sat with me in the dark as I unraveled—not trying to fix or dismiss it. He just let it be. And for the first time, I saw the man behind the stoic mask with his own unguarded grief, andit was like looking into a mirror. He knew what it was to live life carrying a broken heart and a ghost on your back.
It'd been three years, and I still hadn’t been on a real date. Hell, I couldn’t even talk to Alec’s sweet mom on the phone. The grief was a dam, and I couldn’t dare let it breach. The regret would drown me. So I just kept stacking sandbags—work, hard liquor, and my dark humor—to keep the water at bay. To keep myself from drowning.
I needed to apologize. To both of them. My grief and guilt weren’t burdens I liked to share.
I fumbled for my phone with clumsy hands, gripping it as I tried to decide who to text first. Both situations left my face feeling hot and my hands clammy.
Me:
Hey. I’m sorry about last night.
Merrick’s response came before I could set my phone down.
Merrick:
