Page 111 of Nest of Thieves
Mac nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Don’t move.”
Not an order so much as a request. I can tell it means a lot for him to clean the wounds, so I sit in the desk chair. I close my eyes and focus on how my body feels. Now that I’m not bouncing on a knot, my hip hurts. There are a few bruises on my arms, but other than that and the cuts, I’m good. The car crash could have been worse, especially if I hadn’t been buckled in.
“Here we go. Let’s try this again.”
“Mmm, more sex?”
“Kitten, behave.”
I peel an eye open. “Why?”
Mac gives me a stern look. “Because I need to make sure the cuts don’t get infected.”
“Maybe sex after?”
“Maybe,” he says, pressing a warm, wet rag to my skin. “Depends on how good you are.”
I don’t think I’ve ever sat so still in my life. I barely flinch when he pours hydrogen peroxide over the cuts. I’m the best omega there’s ever been.
twenty-eight
VETTE
It only took half an hour to find them. The shitty little bar where the 609 Vandals hang out is on a mostly abandoned street. Half the buildings have boarded-up windows with horribly applied tags on them. There are street artists, and then there are assholes who spray-paint shit for no reason other than to destroy property. To mark their so-called territory. These children have no territory in Atlantic City. Atlantic City Knights isn’t the only gang, but we’re the biggest and the realest. These other gangs out here don’t have what it takes to be legit.
They think it’s all about guns and pussy. They don’t think through their actions. If they did, they would have known attacking our girl would end in a bloodbath. Even though we screwed their shipment, the Philly Vipers know better than to come after family. These kids, though? They’re fools. Three of their guys are already dead, and I doubt these fuckers have even realized it. Lark and I nod at each other before climbing out of the truck. He drops the strap of his AR-15 across his shoulder, and I clutch the compact flamethrower with an iron grip.
They wanted to play?
Time to fucking play.
Lark kicks the door open and points the gun at the bartender, who’s dressed in a blue and white checkered shirt and oversized khakis shorts.
“Don’t fucking move,” Lark warns.
“Whoa, whoa. Cálmate, ese.”Chill out.
“What the fuck?”
More confused voices fill the air, and I step out from behind Lark, glaring at the five young men near a worn pool table. Three chicks are hanging all over them. I point toward the door with the flamethrower.
“Get out while you can.”
The women trade looks.
“Hey, man. What the fuck? Do you know who you’re messing with?” A tough guy with a death wish reaches for a gun behind his back.
“Ah-ah.” Lark tightens his grip on the trigger ever so slightly. “I’ll kill you before you even get it out.”
“Let me guess...609 Vandals? The fuckers who think they can rob the Atlantic City Knights and get away with it?” I ask.
The women edge toward the door. I step aside and gesture at them to hurry up.
“Smart choice,” I whisper when they pass, smiling at the dicks.
Aside from the bartender, they’re the only fuckers inside this dump.
“Bartender, lárgate!”
