Page 113 of Nest of Thieves
No one messes with our family.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
They all fall down.
We could have tortured them, but Lark and I are both in a hurry to get back to Jo. She was covered in blood, and I need to see that she’s okay.
Lark drops his gun and takes a calming breath, clinically scanning the room. “No cameras.”
“Good. Let’s burn the fucker to the ground.”
He nods and grabs a few bottles from behind the bar, smashing them on the floor. The sweet scent of liquor fills the air, and I sweep the flame thrower back and forth while backing toward the door. Lark goes out first. Angry red and orange flames lick up the walls, and dark black smoke pours out of the door, chasing me toward the truck. I set the flamethrower on the floor of the second and tear out of the parking lot.
Lark stares at his phone. “Head home.”
“What? No, we have to get back to Jo.”
“She’s fine. She’s with Mac. She doesn’t need us right now.”
I grind my teeth together, but when he shows me the phone and I see Mac balls deep inside of her, I sigh and take the next turn to head home.
“Lucky asshole,” I mutter.
“There’s nothing lucky about tonight,” Lark says.
“It was already sanctioned,” I remind him. “They would have died, regardless.”
“I know.” He locks his phone and stares out the window.
We killed a lot this last month, and I know it’s fucking with his head, even though it was the right thing to do. This is exactly why I got us out of that side of Atlantic City Knights’ business. There’s a darkness that comes with taking lives. It attaches to you like a goddamn leech and drains the good out of you, turning your soul black. Over the last few years, we’ve managed to get some of our humanity back.
I’m not proud of what we did tonight, but it had to be done. I’ll never regret protecting my family, even if it means I’ll burn in the deepest pit of hell. Even if it means the devil himself will claim my soul for his own. I’d kill again to protect Jo. I’d kill again for Lark and Mac or any of the guys who work for us at the shop.
Never again for Damien.
He’s taken more than his share of my soul.
He doesn’t get any more.
twenty-nine
JO
The guys are at work, and I’m bored as hell. I haven’t been able to go on any more jobs with them. I think the attack last week scared them enough that they’re trying to keep me safe by leaving me behind, but that only means I’m miserable and don’t have anything to do. That’s not entirely true—I did go check on my hotel rooms yesterday to make sure everything was secure. The diamond I stole from Edmund is in the safe as well, and at some point, I’ll need to figure out what to do with it. I know I have homework waiting for me, but I’m stubbornly avoiding it.
Someone points a gun in my face and pulls the trigger.
“Motherfucker,” I shout at the game, tossing the controller on the couch and storming away from the gaming room. I’ve desperately been trying to get better, but I still die half the time. At least I’ve stopped throwing grenades and killing my character. That’s progress. I jog downstairs and grab some popcorn to microwave. While I’m waiting for it to pop, my phone pings in my pocket.
Lark: How many times did you die?
Jo: You creep. Why are you watching me?
Lark: What else am I supposed to do?
Jo: Criminal things. Aren’t you working?
