Max

My guys aren’t the kind of guys you find walking around an office building. Sure, we had a shop that was pretty tidy, all things considered, and we took care of ourselves—most of us, anyway—but in the end, we weren’t the clean, pretty types. The people walking with me as we marched through the front courtyard of the office building downtown were evidence enough of that. They were a rag-tag group, grim and gruesome from our fight with the Slayers, and we looked more than a little out of place.

 

Some wore leathers. Most wore at the very least their Reaper jacket, though the Vultures, save Blackbird, had all left to return home, claiming the last of this wasn’t their fight anymore. Most wore jeans. There were some who had bandanas tied around their heads, some had sunglasses, and we all had tattoos. The kind that made mother’s cover their children’s eyes and caused the new age feminists to cry foul.

 

No, we definitely didn’t belong here. For a moment, that worried me. I needed to get into that building and to the seventh floor if I were going to get to this Jones guy, and that was going to be difficult if we got turned away at the front damn door.

 

Still, we had to try.

 

I walked in through the front and found a security guard sitting with a donut just inside the front entrance. Next to him and just past the door was a metal detector. They’d know we were armed long before we got to the elevator, much less the seventh floor.

 

As soon as the security guard caught sight of us, he put down his donut and scrambled to get to an upright position. He was a little on the chunky side and I was pretty sure he hadn’t been through rigorous training in quite a while. There was little doubt in my mind that, if I had to, I could kick his ass and make it to the elevator before he even had the chance to catch his breath.

 

But I didn’t want to do that. Not unless I had to.

 

Getting on the wrong side of the law was a dangerous business, and while he wasn’t strictly speaking official police, he was still in a uniform working for the “good guys.” That meant they’d take it personally if I fucked him up.

 

So I tried for diplomacy instead. “I’m here to see Mr. Jones,” I told him in a cool, pointed voice.

 

Something akin to relief flashed across his features and he grinned, surprising me. “Oh, yeah, of course. You’re Mr. Jones’s guys. You really had me going there for a minute—you don’t usually come out in force!” He gestured to the men behind me.

 

I frowned, trying to figure out what the fuck he was talking about when I realized it. He thought we were Slayers. Though our jackets marked us differently, this idiot couldn’t tell one motorcycle club apart from the next. Normally, that might piss me off, but today it was the best thing that could have happened.

 

My mouth curled into a smile and I nodded. “Yeah, you mind?” I gestured towards the metal detector.

 

The man laughed nervously. “Oh, of course. I know, you’re all covered with 'metal.'” He winked awkwardly. “Wouldn’t want to make you, you know, strip or anything!” He laughed heartily, but nervously. It was like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to let us through with guns or not. I could have told him he would be an idiot to let us through either way, but I didn’t. In the end, he must have decided it was just too reckless to let us go up there with weapons, because he pulled me aside.

 

In a hushed whisper, he said, “You know I can’t do that. Strict policy. No one with guns goes up, you know. Mr. Jones’s always been like that.”

 

Silently, I weigh my options. If I leave now, I’ll tip him off. If I do as I’m asked, I’ll be up there defenseless with only half the information. Ultimately, I jerked a thumb back towards the guys. “They’ll stay behind. It oughta be private business anyway, right?”

 

The rent-a-cop looked relieved and nodded his head immediately in agreement. “Yes, exactly. Um, your firearm?”

 

I hesitated, then gave it to Blackbird behind me, sending him a sharp look with it. He nodded only once in answer. Forcing a smile, I turned back to the officer. “Anything else?”

 

“Just step on through.”

 

I hesitated a second longer, then stepped through. It didn’t go off. I headed the rest of the way to the elevator, not looking back. The guys knew what to do. The place was covered. If anything went wrong, I’d have it taken care of on the outside at least.

 

Then he waved me off and wished me luck. “You say hi to Mr. Jones for me! Great guy. Real great guy.”

 

I said nothing, because, if I said anything, it was going to end with a punch to that fat pig’s face. Normally, I didn’t have a problem with the police, but if that rent-a-cop thought Mr. Jones was a great guy, he was a piece of shit by default.

 

I got into the elevator, making sure no one came in with me. I sent a nod Blackbird’s way before I pressed the button for the seventh floor. As the doors closed, silence settled in for a brief moment—only to be filled by the annoying sounds of elevator music.

 

# # #

 

When I reached the top floor—seven—I was met by two guards. Big, beefy guys in sharp black suits wearing sunglasses, despite being inside. I couldn’t see their eyes, so it was impossible to say if they were looking at me or not, but one of them spoke into his cuff.

 

“Sir, the Slayers are here to see you.”

 

There was a crackling sound, then the same man said, “Yes, sir.” To me he said, “Mr. Jones isn’t here. He’s already on his way downstairs. I’m afraid you’ll have to reschedule your meeting with him.”

 

I considered busting through the two guards and ransacking the man’s office, but I didn’t really see the point. He was headed downstairs; that was the whole goal anyway. Although I’d taken seven guys with me—all of whom were now waiting on the ground floor, heading outside to take different positions—I’d left the rest of my guys outside.

 

Mr. Jones leaving wasn’t a problem; it was a plus.

 

Smiling, I nodded once at the men. “Absolutely.”

 

By the time I went downstairs, Mr. Jones was already headed to his car and my men were on the verge of action. I’d have to hurry my ass up if I didn’t want to get caught up in it.

 

I passed the officer without so much as a glance, even as he called after me, informing me Mr. Jones had just left. Up ahead, I saw a businessman flanked by four men, dressed just like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum upstairs. I was willing to bet this was Mr. Jones. I stepped outside into the daylight and took a sharp left turn, heading towards a coffee shop that wasn’t even a block down the road. As I did, I pulled out my cell phone.

 

“That’s him,” I said into it, then slammed it shut.

 

They would do the rest.

 

I reached the coffee shop and slipped inside when the first shot fired. Instantly, there was mayhem. It was everywhere, inside and outside of the shop, but I’d found a seat by the window and was staring out at the fray with cool eyes. Bullets were already flying. My guys had been set up around the perimeter of the office building, lying in wait until Mr. Jones came out. We weren’t sure of his schedule, so I was supposed to go up and give him an excuse to come down.

 

Apparently that part hadn’t been necessary.

 

Once he left the building, flanked by the guards we knew would be there, the men would take him out as I got clear.

 

Part of me had wanted to be out in the mess, determined to make sure this all went down the way it was supposed to, but before I’d even declared my intentions, everyone had told me it wasn’t smart.

 

Who’s gonna lead us then?

 

What about your old lady? Lucy?

 

What about the club, man? You gonna leave us hanging like that?

 

My boys were determined to keep me alive for their own sakes, but as I sat there watching the madness outside, I realized something else about myself: I wasn’t sure I wanted this anymore. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be out in the middle of it.

 

I thought back to what Lucy had told me just over a week ago—it felt like forever, though—and realized she’d been right all along.

 

I’m tired of the violence. I’m tired of the fear. I…I want us to be in a better place.

 

She’d wanted us to go that night, to run away. I knew it, but I wasn’t ready to handle it, not then. And then the Preacher had gone up and it was all shot to hell. I ignored what she wanted, because I wasn’t ready for it.

 

Then she asked for the cabin. It was another way to tell me she needed a way out, an escape. She was done with this life, but I thought, A cabin, of course. That’s the answer. A home away from home where we can be normal.

 

But it didn’t work. I was a fool to have thought it ever would.

 

My eyes were drawn back to the scene unfolding outside. I was losing people, my friends, some close enough to be like family to me. I saw Blackbird take a bullet to the chest, crumpling to his knees. He spit blood from his mouth, struggling to stay up, but he couldn’t. He fell the rest of the way to the ground and didn’t move. I clenched my jaw, wishing I could look away, but unwilling to at the same time. The least I could give these men was my undivided attention.

 

More bodyguards had come out of the office building—as had the rent-a-cop, his fat wiggling around him—and they took aim at my guys. People I knew were dropping, some only wounded, others dead. Thus far, though, Jones’s body guards were losing their lives, but not failing. Jones had yet to be injured. I gritted my teeth as I watch the massacre, trying to remind myself why I was sitting here while my friends were being murdered and gunned down.

 

Endgame, I reminded myself, but I kept my jaw shut so tightly, I thought it might break.

 

Danny went down with a cry. He lay on the ground clutching at his leg where he’d been hit. There was blood. I could see it begin to pool around him, even from here. He screamed and wailed like a banshee, clearly in pain.

 

I heard sirens. Someone had called the police, as I knew they would, and that was the signal for my guys to try to get the fuck out of there. Jones was almost to the car. He was uninjured, far from dead. My guys were torn between backing off and continuing with the pursuit, desperate to kill this bastard. But they were out of time. I could see the sirens now and heard the squealing of tires as they tried to get as close to the shootout as possible.

 

Get out of there! I thought, my hands clenched into tight fists on the table. They’d be arrested and it didn’t matter that they were doing the good thing or the right thing if they were breaking the law. They’d go to jail for a long time and I didn’t want to see that.

 

Jones made it to the car—armored, so the chances of getting a shot in after he slammed that door shut were few and far between—and just as he was about to pull the door closed after him, a figure sprinted across the street. He moved quickly, wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. There was no way to make out his features beyond the general build of his body and the shine of his bald head, but I didn’t need to squint to try to figure it out.

 

I knew it was Bills. This was his last favor to me.

 

He dove into the car and grabbed the door to slam it shut behind him. The car peeled out of there only to come across a road block of police vehicles cutting off street traffic. The car was already going too fast. The driver swerved to avoid the blockade, but it was too late. The car tires squealed loudly as the car skidded across the pavement to slam its side into the row of cop cars. The Crown Victorias handled it just fine and I was surprised the black car did, too.

 

There was a lot of yelling as police surrounding the vehicles. More officers swarmed around the building and the courtyard where most of the shooting had taken place. Bodies littered the floor along with shell casings and blood. But the shooting had stopped. There were still a few bodyguards standing around, searching for assailants, but there were none.

 

The courtyard had cleared out. My guys were already out of there.

 

The cops finally got into the black car. The hauled out the driver who was still alive, and arrested him, but they didn’t haul people out of the backseat. They hauled out bodies. Two of them. One was a bald man in a t-shirt.

 

Bills had agreed to do this knowing it would be his last hurrah. This was it for him. Death was waiting for him either at the end of today or at the end of six months, but it was coming either way. This way, at least he got to choose how to go out.

 

They wouldn’t find anything on him beyond his driver’s license—a quick way to ID him—but nothing that would link him to the Sin Reapers. There would be rumors and people would notice that this seemed a lot like “gang violence,” but when the police started asking questions, no one would pin it back on us. We were loyal to the end, and they wouldn’t find any evidence that this had been a planned assault.

 

The police would never know.