Stone

Two days later

The decision to keep Brooke’s old man alive and work with a cop and all that might’ve been easy for a better man than me. A no-brainer. Kids rescued. Faith in the system. No more violence. Brooke happy.

I’m not that man.

It took every ounce of restraint I had not to let loose on her father. It took everything in me not to drive over to that strip mall at top speed, get those kids out, and drive my fist into the men’s faces over and over and over again—enough so that there would be no faces left to pound. It would’ve felt amazing. I’d promised my guys vengeance. I wanted it, too.

I’m their leader, though. I got them out of that shithole, and somewhere deep down in my miserable self, I knew this was the way forward. So I held off. Buttoned down all my darkness.

Wasn’t easy, but I didn’t let my guys know that. They needed to see one hundred percent confidence. They needed to believe. And they did. They followed me, even in this.

It took almost twenty-four hours for Brooke’s dad to get that meeting with Uncle Bill Fossey. He called him up, told him there was trouble, and Fossey couldn’t get away until the next day.

Whatever Fossey said on that wire that Brooke’s dad wore, it was enough to get a search warrant…three hours later. So that was twenty-seven long hours of my guys looking at me sideways, all of us knowing those kids were down there, miserable. And we weren’t doing a damn thing to help them, aside from making sure visitors weren’t arriving.

Rivera actually helped with that—he had a utility crew and a police cruiser set up at the place across the alley, making it look like an issue with that warehouse there. The official presence scared the lowlifes off and served as an excuse for why the ones my guys intercepted never showed.

Those were long fucking hours, though. But sometimes when I really got silent and clear inside myself, I could feel it was right, deep down. And when I’d look into Brooke’s eyes, I could find it there, too. I could be better for her.

We cooked pasta while we waited. Knox and Cruz tried to get her into playing Destiny 2, their latest video game addiction, but mostly we stayed in bed, Brooke and I.

I thought about Nate a lot. When we were first out of that basement, I didn’t understand why he went the way he did, working toward his vet degree and healing animals instead of making guys pay. We’d give him so much shit for playing the game. But now when I look at him, I think he got himself free in a way we didn’t.

Brooke once said I was still down in that basement, that I never left. Maybe she was onto something.

Not that I plan on strapping on a necktie anytime soon—or ever—but maybe I don’t need to go killing everyone I hate. Baby steps.

Brooke’s dad managed to persuade Fossey to reconvene the old gang at some club in East Franklin they all belong to. A place where they all feel safe and in control.

Brooke’s dad gave Fossey some bullshit story Rivera cooked up that there’s some guy peddling information on Grayson and the prison break—shit that could get us all locked up.

So that’s where the takedown will happen. Rivera wanted us to steer clear of that entire part of the city.

Yeah right.

We really wanted to be there when those kids got pulled out, but Rivera talked us out of it. He promised we could see them, but the social workers have some special protocol that’s best for the boys. Something better than a bloodbath and a blazing inferno. Who knew.

We arrive on the street where the fancy club is well before showtime. We might not be pounding their faces in, but this takedown is ours.

“It’ll be that door,” Cruz says, pointing out the unmarked cars up and down the street. Because he knows how cops arrange things.

We hang back in the shadows, in the service entrance to a grand event center across the oak-lined street from the ornate stone and marble historic landmark.

The seven of us waiting together, just like old times, along with Brooke and Abby. This is their day, too.

Brooke is right by my side, like the strong ally that she is.

Calder is on my other side, stoic and silent, bright hair concealed in a dark cap, unmoving as a statue, eyeing the entrance to the exclusive club. Knox has his phone out, checking it over and over like it’s part of his brain, which it is. Nate leans against the wall, hands shoved deep into his pockets, eyes on the pigeons jockeying for perches at the top of the three-story building. Grayson and Ryland sit on the stoop, the least happy about this wait-and-see shit. Abby is right next to Grayson. She pulls out a paper bag.

“That better not be popcorn,” Grayson says.

“It’s fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies,” Abby says. “You gonna tell me you don’t want cookies for this?”

We all do, it turns out. Leave it to Abby to lighten the mood, but there are things to celebrate beyond the guys getting caught.

Rivera got a lead on the real cop killer from whatever Fossey told Brooke’s dad—he’s all but promised Grayson’s conviction will be overturned and charges from the escape vacated. We’re all getting clean slates. That’ll be the deal for our testimony.

Things get tense when the cars start rolling up, when familiar guys start getting out. And by tense, I mean belly-twisting, fist-balling, jaw-clenching tense.

They’re all fifteen years older, but we recognize them like it was yesterday. We gave them all nicknames back in the day, and we murmur them now, remembering together.

A few step out of cabs. Familiar faces, every one of them. Brooke’s dad arrives, still with the wire, according to Rivera. Eventually all the big players are there.

I put a hand on Grayson’s shoulder. “This is them going down,” I say, more for myself than anything.

“Gotcha, motherfuckers,” Cruz whispers into the air between us.

Once they’re all in there, we wait some more. Rivera warned us that the cops would keep back until they felt like they had everything they could get off the wire. Cruz thinks they’ll come in the back and flush them out the front if they run.

Suddenly a white van rolls up. “What the fuck?” Cruz says.

“TV news,” Knox grumbles.

Another news van arrives. Reporters are getting out, staking out sight lines to capture the arrests live.

Nate gives me a look. “Somebody called the news.” The way he says it, he thinks it was me.

He’s right. “That’s terrible,” I say. “Awfully embarrassing to be arrested on live TV.”

A couple of the guys snort.

“Love it,” Grayson growls.

And then it’s happening. Police cruisers zoom up, as if out of nowhere, stopping right up on the sidewalk, one, two, three, four, five. A police van turns the corner, lights flashing. There are more flashing lights from cop cars on the other side.

The windows of the place are thick with stained glass, but I’m betting they’re seeing this. People are gathering. It’s a circus. The cops put up tape to create a perimeter.

“It’s time,” I say. I don’t mean anything specific by that. Just everything. It’s time for everything. I grab Brooke’s hand. Our gazes meet. Hope swells in my heart. “Come on.”

We step out of the shadows, all of us together—my brothers. Brooke and Abby. We edge up between news vans, hanging together as a group.

The ornately carved doors burst open. Detective Rivera appears with Judge William Fossey at the top of the marble steps. Fossey’s hands are cuffed behind his back. His jaw is set, his face pale, and his eyes bright with horror as he surveys the crowd and news cameras, but then he seems to collect himself, and he smiles as the reporters rush up and ask for comment.

“Fake news,” he says. “Nothing but lies.”

Then he sees me. He sees Grayson. He sees the group of us, strong together. A force for right.

It’s then that I think he knows he’s well and truly fucked. I swear, some of the life visibly drains out of him. He seems smaller, even. Rivera drags him the rest of the way down the steps and toward the waiting police van.

Other men get dragged out in the same way, there in full view of the world, the beginning of a long walk of shame and misery. And each and every one of them sees us. We make sure of it.

Something stirs in my chest each time, like I want to shout and swear and throw shit and I don’t know what else. It’s fucking overwhelming.

In a good way.

We stay until the last of the guys are out. We stay there long after the news crews race down to the police station to do more interviews. Long after the crowds disperse and the sun is setting over the buildings.

We’re a little shell-shocked, I think.

Grayson is the one to break the spell. “Let’s go home.”