Page 64 of Merciless

I hear footsteps crunching behind me.

Out of nowhere.

It has me stilling with putting Kenny to ground.

“Stand down,” a voice commands.

It’s somebody using one of those voice modifiers, so you can’t tell who they are.

“Drop the gun, Cal.” What the fuck? Nobody calls me by that name outside of my family.

A gun cocks behind me. “Last chance. Drop it, before I drop you.”

I scoff and being the bold bastard that I am, I spin around.

Before I can even see who’s barking orders at me, and get a handle on the situation, something brutally hard slams into the side of my head.

Then everything slips away.

* * *

“Jesus Christ,” I groan as I open my eyes to one hell of a headache. Like a hangover from hell, without the actual satisfaction of the numbing feeling of booze first. Even the nausea is there. That’s what happens when you take a hefty hit to the head.

“It was either a nasty headache or a tranq,” somebody speaks. “That would’ve come with the same issues once you awoke, though. Plus, I don’t do tranqs. Bullets are much more straight to the point, wouldn’t you agree?”

I force myself to sit up on the wraparound white leather couch I’m apparently sprawled out on. I follow the sound of the voice, taking in my surroundings, and realizing I’m in some overly-luxurious office, to see a woman leaning against her desk, eyeing me.

“Who are you? Why’d you knock me out back there?” I grind out.

As she pushes off her desk and saunters up to me, I take her in.

Jesus Christ, she’s a real looker.

Real vibrant-red hair and striking deep-green eyes that seem like they’re trying to pierce right through my goddamn soul. She’s decked out in skin-tight leather pants and a white silky tank that really has her big breasts popping. Looks about mid-twenties, which should make her more than a little green, but that ain’t what I’m getting from her at all. Nah, I’m seeing an old soul staring back at me, meshing with the same thing in me.

This office is really something too.

A massive thing, spanning at least forty-feet in length and almost just as wide. Fancy-ass place, stylish and modern with a marble floor, a chrome desk with a frosted glass top, the coffee table in the seating area the same thing. The seating area’s all white-leather couches and oversized chairs. A sixty-inch flat-screen hangs in the center of the far wall, showing surveillance footage from a few places I recognize around the city and God knows where else. Woman’s got it made, it looks like.

“The name’s Kingmaker,” she announces as she reaches me and folds her arms across her chest, keeping just a couple of feet from me.

“Jesus Christ. You’re the person behind the name?”

“Charlotte Brant.”

I raise an eyebrow at her revelation. “Why you telling me this, giving me your real name?”

“I find it’s a polite way to start a new business relationship.”

“You and I ain’t gonna be doing that.”

“All because I knocked you out? Come on, that’s a little short-sighted. You can’t afford to take things personally right now.”

What does she know about my current situation? “What do you think you know about it, sweetheart?”

She flashes me a smug smile. “I know a great deal, Cal Austin. In your world, you go by Dealer, because of your rep for the last decade of being a brutal bastard, dealing out death. Well, that’s the surface interpretation. But your road name is even more than that. You make deals that further your position of power and cripple others who are vying for the same thing. One of those others is Pete Barron—Skinner—the president of the Devil’s Mavericks. The club has become a dangerous rival to Black Thorns, so much so that there’s talk of Skinner coming for you directly to bury you. The last six months, you’ve been putting things in place in case the worst happens and he succeeds in taking you out. You’re surrounded by many weak men, your club struggling. So, you’re searching out new blood.” She grins. “The most controversial choice possible among them being Skinner’s wayward son.”

Jeez, she’s delved deep there. I shift my weight on the couch, sitting forward and grunting as my head swims with the slight movement. “Why research the fuck out of me?”

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