Thirty-Two
The Teague kitchen was redolent of herbs and roasting meat. The oven light was on and through the window, Aidan could see the chicken thighs, no doubt slathered with butter and dusted with parsley. For the first time in his life, Maggie’s cooking wasn’t a distraction.
He and Carter stood shoulder-to-shoulder in Maggie’s kitchen, watching as Mags and Ava put together side dishes and a salad. The boys were in a playpen over against the wall. Ghost wasn’t home yet.
“So what you’re saying,” Maggie said, pausing as she sliced zucchini, “is that you don’t want us to share this with our husbands.”
“And I tell Mercy everything,” Ava said.
Mother and daughter stared them down, formidable as any firing squad.
“Yeah,” Aidan said, “that’s what I’m saying. I don’t wanna talk to Ghost and Mercy’s old ladies right now. I want to speak with Maggie and Ava. ‘Cause they’re the smartest chicks I know.”
Sam notwithstanding.
The women shared a look, then turned back to him after some silent communication. “You need an accomplice for a super-secret rescue mission,” Maggie said. “I know who I’d pick.”
“Me too,” Ava said. “Though I do wish you’d let Merc help you. He loves Tango and he’d do this off the record, without Dad’s approval.”
Aidan dipped his head in acquiescence. “I appreciate that, yeah. But this needs to be a slim operation.”
Ava shrugged. Together, she and Maggie said, “Fox.”
“Fox?”
“He’s Walsh without the allegiance,” Maggie said.
“And a slippery trigger finger,” Ava added. “I bet you money he’d get on board and keep his mouth shut.”
“He’s still in town?” Maggie asked.
“Yeah, but…”
“Then Godspeed, Aidan Teague,” his stepmother said with a grin. “Godspeed.”
~*~
Bell Bar was full of its usual crowd: part-committed drinkers, part-college kids, mostly regular joes. At the Dogs’ usual high top table, Fox helped himself to more Michelob from the pitcher and said, “So let me get this straight, chaps. You want me to go against your president’s wishes and help you form a rescue party?”
Walsh’s younger brother had that same cool, blue-eyed severity, expressions bland to the point of harsh, manner disinterested in the extreme.
“Yeah,” Aidan said. “Help us, and don’t say anything to anybody.”
This could go so poorly, it wasn’t even funny.
Fox studied his pint glass, swiping a finger up the side of it. “What’s in it for me?”
“You get to kill people. Probably.” Aidan said.
The Englishman thought about it a long moment. Then nodded. “Always a good reason. I’m in.”
~*~
Aidan and Carter took stools at the table and beer was traded for a round of Fireball.
“God, I hate that shit,” Fox said, setting his glass aside with a grimace.
Carter choked on his. That cinnamon was an unwelcome kick at the end. “Then why’d you order it?”
“Clears my head.” The Englishman pushed a hand through his dark hair. “Okay. So.” His shrewd eyes moved between them. “We’re going to do this intelligently, boys, which means doing it my way. We need a where” –he started ticking the points off on his fingers– “we need a when, and we need a how. Supplies,” he continued, “alibis, a location, a plan of attack, and a way in. Which means we need intel.” He lifted his brows. “Ideas?”
Aidan nodded grimly. “You got anything against working with one of your own?”
~*~
The next morning, the sun played through the sleek auburn lengths of Ian’s hair as he spun his desk chair in lazy circles. Downstairs in the funeral parlor part of his operation, the staff had seemed to be expecting them, a lackey in a suit leading them up to the office straightaway.
Ian stopped spinning, face turned toward the window, giving them a glimpse of his profile. It was theatric, the way he folded his hands together and brought the fingertips up to the end of his nose. Drama queen. Literally. “Am I to understand,” he said, “that you’re defying your father’s orders and going against him to stage a secret rescue operation?”
“If you wanna say it all fancy like that, sure. That’s what I’m doing.”
He inhaled, shoulders lifting and then falling. His eyes flicked over. Large eyes, bright with emotion. “He’ll kick you out of the club for this, you know.”
“Give a shit,” Aidan said, holding steady eye contact, wanting his sincerity to translate. “If he lets my best friend get killed, that’s not a club I want to be a part of.”
Expression sparking with interest, Ian swiveled around, facing them now. He glanced at Carter and then Fox in turn. “Do your brothers here share your sentiments?”
“No idea. I won’t ask them to take a fall for this. I’ll take full credit for the whole fucked up mess.”
“I want to ensure that you’re all equally committed, you understand. No sense backing balky horses.”
“Aidan was my sponsor when I came into the club,” Carter said. “I’m with him. All the way.”
What a change of tides. Had they been alone, Aidan would have pulled him into a hug, such was his sudden surge of gratitude. But instead he tipped his head toward Fox, silently asking.
“I don’t balk,” he said, voice flat.
“That’s about the biggest answer you’re gonna get out of him,” Aidan said.
Ian drummed his fingers together, seemed to consider.
“It’s Kev,” Aidan prodded. “I know you–”
“Yes, obviously I’m in.” He sighed. “But I can’t involve my men. That would kick off a Middle-Earth-scale battle neither you nor Knoxville could handle at present.” He held out his arms, inviting them to look at his expensive gray suit, open-throated sky blue shirt. “So you have me, and whatever money and supplies you need from me.”
Aidan snorted. “We have you? Yeah, Rambo, that’ll be a big help.”
Ian grinned darkly. “Just you wait, darling. As you would say, you don’t know shit about me.”
~*~
How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Months? He didn’t know or care. All he wanted was for someone to put a bullet through his frontal lobe. He was destined for insanity anyway, right? No one could handle the aftereffects of his life thus far. This new torture was physical only; it hadn’t touched his mind – that was already damaged beyond repair. And this was an old familiar pain, that of violation and misuse. He felt the welling of blood and knew that this had been bad; this had been worse than with the paying customers. This had been about making a point and fighting hard against their own sick delight in the act.
Through the wall of bars that separated them, Whitney was sobbing quietly.
Tango rolled his head toward her, but his eyes were puffy, his vision glazed-over. He hated that she’d witnessed it all, but he wasn’t sorry that he’d saved her from it. “S’okay,” he mumbled, voice getting stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. “I’m alright.” He tried to lift a hand to demonstrate, but the limb only shuddered on the concrete.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Whitney chanted. And then, in a low, fierce voice: “I have to get us out of here. I have to.”