“Are you ready, Ryker?” Marcus asks, and I’m grateful again for my brother. While he may think he’s just doing things anyone could do, it’s at times like this that I most appreciate his presence. I feel the weight of the potential deaths on my mind. Not of the three assholes that we’re aiming for, but of Marcus, Javier, and Eric, the two hitters Marcus chose to help us with this job.

Marcus isn’t like me in that regard. Sure, he knows Javy and Eric better than I do—that’s his job. He knows the boys. I need that sort of distance from them because deep down, I care about them too much to want to risk them. It’s hard enough risking my brother. Myself . . . well, that’s just the way it goes.

His question helps me focus on the challenge at hand. Tonight’s poker game is happening at The Lucky Seven Tavern, where there’s a very lucrative underground casino in the back room. Where money isn’t the only things thrown into the pot during the game, but things that you can’t exactly exchange in the casino a hundred miles down the road. Six men—the three targets plus three more men who are unimportant to me except as potential guns—and a few bodyguards.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” I finally reply, going over to the scratched desk in the warehouse we’re using as a staging area for tonight’s attack and picking up the Saiga-12 that I’m using for tonight’s hit. Marcus is carrying the same thing. Two semiautomatic shotguns are enough for this, while Javy and Eric will be carrying MP-5s. It’s one of the first lessons I learned when I started bringing the gangs together, one I borrowed from the military as I took my brains from studying at a community college and applied them to running this thing. Everyone showing up with whatever Saturday Night Special they wanted to bring to the party is a good way to find yourself fucked up very quickly. Good troops need good equipment, so I’ve made sure that my men carry the best we can get our hands on.

That lesson becomes clear when I see Javier holding not the MP-5 that I ordered, but an Uzi in his hands when I come out of the office, making me stop. “What the fuck is that?”

He’s a new kid, a steady hand so far and he’s proven to be loyal and eager to make something of himself. But he’s from the South Side, which for a long time was disrespected around town. I don’t believe in it, but some still do. I can read in Javy’s eyes that he wants to make an impression tonight. “It’s my baby. I call her Charlene.”

I roll my eyes, holding up a hand when Marcus takes a step forward. I’ll handle this. “Put the bitch away. That’s not what we’re here for.”

“Why?” Javier asks, a trifle unsure but not wanting to come off as a punk. Little does he know that by standing up to me, he’s just making it worse for himself. “Charlene can pump lead just as good as those German death machines.”

I step closer and take the Uzi from him. Without warning, I turn and spray the Uzi across the other end of the warehouse. We’re secluded enough that the sound won’t be noticed. “Now that you’re out of ammo, what the fuck good are you?”

“But . . .” Javy says as I hand the now empty Uzi back to him. “I mean—”

“This isn’t some goddamned Stallone movie where our guns have magic magazines that never run out of rounds.” I interrupt, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and jamming the gun into his chest. “And you don’t have any spare mags for your gun! What are you going to do, tell everyone to stop while you hand-load spare rounds one by one into your mag? Put Charlene down.”

Javier’s stunned, but he does as he’s told. Eric, who’s been with us from the beginning, just chuckles and follows behind, climbing in the back and closing the door. Marcus gives me a chagrined look. “Sorry, Ryker. Thought he would’ve known better than that.”

“He’s young, he’ll learn. As long as he’s a good hand in the fight, I’m not worried about him being a bit cocky. Come on.”

We climb into the van, and I see that Eric’s already climbed behind the driver’s seat, leaving shotgun for Marcus and the back for Javy and I. The engine starts up and we pull out, Javier and I looking at each other across the back of the van.

“Mr. Ryker?” Javier finally says to break the silence. He sounds different this time, maybe he’s ready to actually learn. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”

“The people we’re going to hit tonight, they’ve been able to keep us down for years because they’ve treated us like door mats. We have the numbers, my friend. For every cop, for every ‘made man’ in the mobs who looks down on us, there’s four street level soldiers. We should have had this city a long damn time ago. But we helped them, we let them divide us, put us against each other over stupid shit like what color our skin is or what street we represent. They thought we were incapable of coming together, and the fact is, we weren’t for a long time. That shit stops. We work together, we cooperate and we can take this city.”

“You mean you take the city,” Javier says, and I shrug.

“Every unit has to have a leader. At least I still remember what it was like looking forward to my state paid for lunch at school and my cheap shit government beans and cheese dinner. I haven’t forgotten the hustle. And I haven’t forgotten how to get my hands dirty. Like tonight.”

Javier nods, looking at his MP-5. I can tell he’s thinking, he’s had a life like mine. Maybe the foods were different, but he understands. Finally, he looks up. “Okay then. My bad about Charlene.”

I offer my hand, and we shake before we sit back. The staging area was a good ways from The Lucky Seven, and it takes us a while. Finally, Marcus speaks up from the front. “There it is, Ryker.”

I scoot forward, looking out the front window as I see The Lucky Seven Tavern. The sign is practically a fucking advertisement for what goes on in the back, a pair of dice showing a four and a three superimposed over a martini glass, but the cops don’t give a fuck as long as they get their kickbacks. They play their games and we play ours.

“Okay, pull up to the side entrance down the alley. That’s where the casino door is,” I say. I take a second and look around at the others. “Remember the plan. Hit them hard and fast. No casualties other than the three fucksticks we’re after, and any bodyguards. We clear?”

Everyone nods, and Eric pulls the van up in front of the casino door. “GO!”

I know there’s a security camera, so we don’t have much time as we throw open the sliding door on the driver’s side, Eric and Javy getting out first. Marcus has the slowest route, having to come around. “Down!”

The Saiga roars, the twelve-gauge deer slug hitting the door near the locks and punching a hole through. Steel core doors aren’t shit for a slug fired from eighteen inches away. With a kick of my boot, the door flies open and I fire again into whatever the fuck’s in the way.

Javy’s first, his ego and machismo making him break discipline and he pays for it, the shot from the bodyguard inside taking him high in the left shoulder. It doesn’t matter, my shotgun makes quick work of the shooter a half second later while Eric’s already doing his job, spraying the poker table in front of us with an entire forty round clip while Marcus and I shove through the door. Marcus once again shows his guts as he steps in front of the sagging Javier to protect him.

Somehow, miraculously, Sal Francisco is still alive, his hands over his head, pressed down against the table after Eric’s sweep with his gun, and I take him out first, blowing him out of his chair. Julio Gonzales is on the floor, but Jimmy’s up, his reflexes a lot faster than a man his age normally has. My next shot takes him in the hip, destroying his ability to walk while spinning him to the floor and adding his screams to the overall insanity. Down and neutralized, I fire again, putting him down. “Hold!”

Eric takes a little longer than the others, finishing out his current magazine before he stops and we survey the damage. The table, which at one point looked like it might have been dark oak covered in green felt, looks like firewood with green puffs of fuzz on top, and the metal chairs have been twisted into strange, fantastical shapes as rounds have blasted them into scrap. The stench of burned gunpowder overpowers everything, although the coppery smell of blood is already starting to undercut it and make its presence felt.

Through the wall, I can hear a little bit of reaction from the patrons of the Lucky Seven. The walls are soundproofed but not that well. Miraculously, I can hear a woman’s whimpers, and crouched down in the corner is a girl who was obviously here for entertainment purposes after the poker was finished, if her Playboy Bunny outfit is to mean anything. She’s covered in a mist of blood, we all are, and when I go over to nudge her with the toe of my boot, she screams, looking up at me with bright green eyes. “Please! Please don’t kill me!”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I reply softly, squatting down. Eric’s already pulling back, pulling the injured Javier with him while Marcus covers me, making sure there’s nobody playing possum. “I need you to deliver a message to someone for me, though.”

“Who?” the girl asks, her voice like a little girl’s from the shock. Not what I intended, but at least she’s uninjured.

“Tell them . . . this town is Ryker’s island,” I say softly, standing up and shouldering my Saiga. “Tell them that if they don’t know that now, they’ll find out soon enough.”

The girl nods and I turn, walking out casually through the door.

I turn my attention to Javier, who’s panicked and in shock from the gunshot. Luckily for him, I prepared for this. “Chill, Javy. The doctor’s just a few miles away. He’ll get you fixed up, he’s the best around. In the meantime, just chill, lie back, and think of the stories you’ll get to tell about this. Besides, chicks dig scars.”

Javier tries to smile, but it hurts, so he just grimaces and nods. “Sorry, Ryker.”

“No sweat, man. We’re gonna get you stitched up, you’ll rest up a little, and then you’ll be back in no time. You showed guts, which is number one. We’ll work on getting those guts under control later.”

Nobody says anything else until we get to the doctor’s place, dropping Eric and Javier off at the underground clinic while Marcus and I head off to ditch the van. As I drive, Marcus rides shotgun, his eyes constantly sweeping the streets around us. “So, Ryker, about Doc . . .”

“Yeah?” I ask, and Marcus looks over.

“You do know that he’s not a real doctor, right? He was just a Navy Corpsman who went to State on an ROTC scholarship.”

I nod, giving my brother a smirk. “I know that. You know that. But Javier doesn’t need to know. He’ll be fine. Now, on to business. After tonight, we’ve got to be ready to move and move fast. The next hit’s going to be at the funeral for Sal Francisco. If we’re lucky, we might even get a shot in on Jacob Waters himself.”

Marcus nods, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “We’ll be ready.”