The Trainees
Cross POV
Andino Marcello was fucking with Cross. He had to be. How else would the Marcello boss explain the utter fucking bullshit Cross was having to deal with right now?
Bullshit was being kind, really.
Cross was now—with no affection in his delivery—referring to the idiots that Andino had sent to him as simply The Fucks. One Fuck, Two Fuck, Three Fuck, Four Fuck, Five Fuck, and Six Fuck.
Six entirely useless fucks who Cross was supposed to train for Andino to apparently run guns for his operation. If there was ever a reason for a woman to swallow a load—it was those foolish idiots Andino sent to him.
The world would not have been a lonelier place without their lives added to the mix, as far as Cross was concerned.
Jesus.
Send me your best guys, Cross had told Andino. He was then, in turn, supposed to make the guys into the best weapons runners that Andino had ever seen. With these fucks, that was going to be entirely impossible. They were so useless to Cross, in fact, that he couldn’t even be bothered to learn their names.
Hence, The Fucks.
It was the best he could do.
Insubordinate.
Ignorant.
Arrogant.
Downright stupid at times.
They couldn’t follow direction, had zero understanding of how to shut up and listen, and Cross was seriously concerned about safety when it came to these idiots having guns in their hands.
They were not gunrunning material.
None of them.
Cross knew it from the moment they walked into the warehouse on day one. They were a bunch of boys playing pretend—idiots dressing up as even bigger fools. No one with any sense would think this was a good idea to use them as gunrunners.
Fuck One had no idea how to properly load a mag. Fuck Two was so lazy that Cross had caught the guy taking a nap in the corner—for the second time. Fuck Three left his phone where Cross could see it, and thus, also the texted pictures of guns the guy had sent to his girlfriend.
And that was just three of them.
The other three?
Just as bad.
If not worse.
Cross tried—fuck knows he tried to do something with these guys. Something to turn them into useable, moldable men. Even … possibly … potential made men for Andino, and not just gunrunners.
It was impossible.
The Lord was testing him.
That’s what it had to be.
God was having a good moment.
A joke at Cross’s expense.
A loud clang followed by the unmistakable pop going off broke Cross from his daze. A break he had taken away from those idiots to try and at least relax for five goddamn minutes, so he didn’t kill one of them.
A shout echoed.
Then, a curse.
“Oh, my fucking God,” one of the guys mumbled loudly.
“What now?” Cross groaned.
Because apparently, he couldn’t even have those five fucking minutes to himself. He should have known better, frankly. Like damn children, these fools couldn’t be left to their own devices. They had to constantly watched—babysat like babies.
“Boss, boss!”
Cross pushed away from the office wall, and headed for the door with a sigh. No, even calling them children was too nice, honestly. His two kids were far better behaved than these fucks, and Naz was still just a newborn, for Christ’s sake.
“What the hell do you guys need now?” Cross asked as he came out onto the warehouse’s main floor. “What are you all standing there for?”
Five of the fucks stood in a semi-circle facing Cross.
He noticed a problem instantly.
“Where’s the other fuc—guy?”
Fuck One—the idiot with the issues learning how to load bullets and handle a gun was standing in the middle with a semi-automatic hanging from his limp hand. He looked as though he had seen a ghost.
White all over.
“What happened?” Cross boomed.
Maybe if he spoke louder, they would listen better.
Doubtful.
The five men—all with wide eyes—moved slightly further away from the fuck with the gun. None of them particularly looked like they trusted the guy all that much at the moment. Which was strange because one thing the six idiots did have was comradery between them. That would have been great if they all had even an ounce of common sense to add in with it, though.
Something they didn’t have.
At all.
Cross came closer.
Finally, he saw what they had been standing in front of. Or rather, what they all had been trying to hide from him.
He also found the missing fuck.
Dead on the warehouse floor in a pool of his own blood. The guy’s face was blown off from the chin upward. He still had one eyeball left, but it was half hanging out of his face, and half resting in brain matter splattered on his cheek and the concrete.
Jesus Christ.
“S-s-s-sorry,” the idiot with the gun mumbled. “I d-d-didn’t mean t-t-t-o. I j-j-just—it went off! I w-w-waved it, and—”
“Figured out how to get the bullets in, did you?”
The guy swallowed his next reply instead of speaking and stuttering even more than he already was. He could probably tell just by Cross’s cold, calm demeanor that he was in for a world of trouble if he didn’t shut up right now.
Smart, really.
Cross was too exhausted for this today. He really just wanted to go home, and salvage the rest of this awful fucking day with his wife and kids.
Anything but this.
He wasn’t asking for a lot.
Coming close enough that he could snatch the gun away—Cross really couldn’t afford to have the idiot shooting someone else at the moment—he removed the weapon, and felt slightly safer with it being in his own grasp.
“What did you think would happen if you waved a loaded gun around?” Cross asked.
“I … don’t know,” the guy said lamely.
“You don’t know.”
It wasn’t even a question.
“No—”
Before the guy could even finish his sentence, Cross lifted the rifle, and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the fool’s face, and sent his head snapping back in the most morbid way with a sickening crack. Blood and matter spewed from the now-gaping hole in the man’s face. His body quickly hit the floor with a dull thud.
Dead.
Just like that.
Easy.
Two less fucks for the world.
Cross felt no guilt. Frankly, idiots like that could not be afforded the privilege of walking and breathing the same air as other people. Or worse … spread their seed of stupid on to a new generation. Foolishness bred only more foolishness.
He considered his actions a gift to the universe, really.
Silence echoed in the warehouse after Cross shot the guy. He didn’t think any of the others even took a damn breath for a whole minute or more—the first time all day that they had actually decided to close their yapping traps.
Which was smart, really.
At the moment, he was three seconds away—or less—from killing the rest of them, too. It was really only going to take one of them pushing him just the right way, and that was going to be the fucking end of it.
No excuses.
Sighing, Cross discharged the magazine from the rifle, and then removed the stock, too. Now practically useless, and not very dangerous, he set the gun on a nearby table before he faced the rest of the stunned men.
Four fucks left.
For now.
“Get out,” Cross uttered.
Deathly calm.
Entirely cold.
The four didn’t need to be told again. They scattered like frightened rats in a dank back alley that just had a light shined on them.
Cross didn’t move until the last one was out of the front door. And only then did he pull out the phone from his slacks pocket. Dialing a familiar number, he put the phone to his ear, and listened to it ring.
Finally, the biggest Fuck of the hour picked up the phone. “Cross. How’s things?”
“Andino,” Cross replied dryly. “Two of your men are dead. The other four will be returned to you in small little pieces that you’ll be able to put together like a puzzle for their casket viewings should you send them to me again. I hope you understand.”
For a long while, Andino was silent. Then, quietly and slowly, the man started to chuckle. Cross had no fucking idea what was so funny.
“I wondered how long you would last with those idiots,” Andino managed to mutter through his laughter.
“You sent them to me knowing what they were like?”
“I hate cleaning house,” Andino admitted. “Plus, some of them might have just needed a good scare to set them straight. You’re good for both things.”
Rage swelled through Cross.
“Andino?”
“What?”
“If you ever waste my time again, I will cut your fucking heart out, and mail it to your wife while it’s still fresh enough to bleed when she opens it up. The next men you send to me for this better be more than worth my ass getting out of bed. Under-fucking-stood?”
Andino sighed. “Well, you’re no fun.”
“Don’t ever fuck with me and my guns again.”