Page 92 of Marcus: Sins of the Father

“My bad,” I mutter and brush past him, hurrying to the side of the building.

“Nice duck,” he calls after me.

I dash along the plate glass storefront, glancing toward the car that still sits over at the curb. Mickey is leaned against it, speaking to a Death Head whose back is to me.

I wish I could hear what they’re saying, but right now, I need to get out of view and regroup.

Darting around the corner, I find the restroom, unlock the door, slip inside, and throw the deadbolt, blowing out a breath. Christ, that was too damn close. My heart pounds in my chest and adrenaline pumps through my veins.

I slide my phone out and send Crash my location. It’s been drilled into all of us prospects the importance of being careful with what we say through text messages. We know better than to send any information others could understand, so I try to encrypt what I need to share.

MARCUS: OUR FRIENDS FROM THE GIRLS’ SKI TRIP JUST SHOWED UP AT A GAS STATION TO MEET WITH MY NEW BUDDY. I MANAGED TO GET TO A BATHROOM, BUT IF I DON’T CHECK IN SOON, THIS IS MY LOCATION.

CRASH: SHIT. GOT IT.

I move to the door. I’m about to crack it open when I hear voices on the other side.

“Why’d you want to talk over here? That dumpster stinks,” Mickey’s voice complains.

“No cameras aimed at us in this spot,” a scratchy sickening voice I immediately recognize says. It’s Jackal, the man in charge when we ran into the Death Heads at that gas station a couple of weeks back.

“Right. Well, let’s get to it then.”

“I saw on the news you’ve been keeping the Evil Dead pretty busy. Good. Don’t need them fucking up our shipment.”

“I’m a man of my word.”

“Well, you better be, or we’ll be leaking that video we have of you at our cat house. Can’t imagine that would fly with your plans to run for Senator.”

“I don’t imagine it would,” Mickey replies in a low voice.

“Just remember, keep Highway 50 clear of police and Evil Dead, and we’ll be all good,” Jackal sneers.

“I need to know the day and time the girls—I mean shipment—is being moved,” Mickey murmurs.

“Here. All the details are on this.” Jackal sucks on a cigarette and blows smoke out. “We good?”

“Yeah. I’ve got plans for the cops to raid the club again, only this time I don’t think they’ll come up empty-handed.” Mickey chuckles, and I want to punch him in the face.

My hand flexes at my side, and my blood boils. This fucker. He’s gonna get what’s coming to him. The club will see to that.

“Damn. You hearin’ this, Jackal? These politicians are just as crooked as us. They just do it in a suit,” another man snarls with contempt.

“That’s true, Trigger. Well, we’re fucking done here.”

“The next time you need to contact me, do not call my office,” Mickey warns gruffly, and I almost snort. The idea that he’s giving orders to the Death Heads is laughable.

A second later, I hear his body slam against the door, and I jump back.

“Remember who you’re fucking talking to, you shithole. I own your ass,” Jackal growls.

There’s dead silence for a moment in which I’m sure Mickey is nodding like a bobblehead.

Finally, boots shuffle into the distance, and I hear Mickey push away from the door and scurry off, followed by the rumble of bikes. I wait until they fade into the distance, then stay put an extra couple of minutes just to be sure. Jamming a piece of gum in my mouth, I let my jaw work my rage out. I crack open the door to check the lot.

A lone car pumping gas and my truck are the only remaining vehicles.

Leaving the idiotic duck on the floor, I stroll out, blowing a bubble.

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