Page 40 of Rise of the King (Checkmate 5)

I’ll take him out before I’m done here.

As though he’s sampling the wares, the guy in charge flicks his wrist again and sends the rest of the dudes scattering until they pull another fifteen women out of the vans.

The girls are lined up, inspected, felt up, and slapped for their crying.

My heart slams inside my chest, but my hands remain steady. My adrenaline surges, and my stomach rumbles, but I don’t move an inch as the guy in the suit walks the line of women the way my father used to walk the childhood bedroom I shared with Kane while he did his inspection.

Despite the fact all seven men in the valley possess firearms, and no doubt the driver of the car has his own stash, too, the man in the suit pulls his, and the rest of them don’t touch theirs.

Its six against one, if only they’d work together. If only they’d use their brains and stop with the bullshit they’re fed, they might survive this night. But whoever is in charge knows how to divide the little people, how to pit them against each other so they can’t even see right in front of themselves. The gangbangers don’t even think to work together, because they’ve been taught that every other club is the enemy. That the only way to live and succeed is to take everyone else out.

So the guy in the suit runs this show despite his lack of manpower, gunpower, and body mass.

But the guy in the suit doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t know that I run this show, andhewon’t survive this night either.

I watch his hand through my scope, study the engravings on his Beretta,and shake my head when he plucks one of the guys off with a loud boom. The women squeal, and the guy’s head explodes until gray matter stains the ground and the side of his own van.

Screaming, sobbing, the girls break formation, work together in a way the men can’t, and form a tight circle to protect the smallest in the middle.

The five remaining gangbangers watch their superior with white faces and shaking hands.

They speak; they provide excuses, and they ignore the women who inch away in their distraction.

“Keep going, motherfucker. Pluck them off. Take it out of my hands.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I don’t take my eyes off the guy in the suit as he asks his men questions. The scared women in the valley bring my thoughts around to Sophia; she’s probably waking around now, and she’ll find her bed empty. Will she be glad I’m gone, or pissed I snuck out? Will she change her locks and rent an apartment somewhere else in the city, or will she be worried when she can’t find me?

And does she know this world?

She said no one has hurt her, but obviously someone has. She carries a gun and swears off men. She quit a life of professional dancing and took a job where she’s worked to the bone day in and day out. Dancing will wear her to exhaustion, too, but at least she’d be doing it for her, and not to make an executive somewhere in an office she’ll never enter rich.

I respect women; I cherish them, enjoy them, consume them. But I never worry about their sleep schedules or their workloads. I fuck them, taste them, and pleasure them. But I never eat a meal with them or sleep in their bed at night.

The fact Sophia brings these new actions out in me is enough to convince me to pack my shit up and make myself invisible. I don’t even have to leave the city. I just need to leave my apartment building and stop going to Ginnie’s.

I’m lying on a cold hill in a ghillie suit with a long-range Winchester in my hands, while I watch one man execute several others. And when he’s done, I’ll execute the rest.

That’s not a world Sophia Solomonthe Wise and Peacefulcan be exposed to.

It’s too dangerous, and if she’s ever hurt because she knows me, I’d never forgive myself.

So why do I still want to reach into my pocket and take out my phone to check if it’s her texting?

At another gunshot, I refocus on the world in front of me and count three thugs left. This guy is going to kill each of them. He’s doing my job for me, and none of the idiots can think a second ahead and grab their guns to save their lives.

More questions are asked.

More answers are given.

The women gain a few more inches of space from the men.

And the suit shoots another guy until there are only two remaining.

Finally, he gives the signal that anyone can read without words: load them up.

No. Not on my watch.

The women scream as the thugs herd them back toward the vans. They shove all twenty-one women into two vans, slam their fists into the girls’ stomachs when they fight back, and swing the doors closed while the women scream and pound against the windows.

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