Before he could thumb the ignition on his motorcycle, Tex forced himself to take several long, slow breaths. He’d never seen a therapist after he came back from overseas, but he’d seen a character on TV told to recite street names from her childhood to deal with her flashbacks and panic attacks. It didn’t do much for him, but he said the names anyway.
Hendricks had been in a daze when he’d walked back into the living room, but Eddie was convinced he was telling the truth. He’d verified that Pedey was the one who’d run Danny down in the street, and verified that the actual order had been given by Ginger Mac. Fifteen years ago, Mac had been the Sergeant-At-Arms for the Racketeers, running their drug operations and managing their suppliers. He’d warned Hendricks about the lengths he’d be willing to go to if Smokey kept fucking up. And the little pissant hadn’t been able to stop using long enough to even consider what he was about to do to his family.
In his guts, he knew it wasn’t as simple as just stopping using. He’d seen plenty of guys come home and need something to make the hurting stop. It wasn’t the use he judged, not really, but he hated what Hendricks had done to his family with his use. He wished he knew a way to help the guy get clean, get healthy. Hell, he wished he knew how to get himself healthy. Maybe, with this shit in his past, he could finally find a way to get things right in his head.
If Jessie were still with him. If she weren’t with him, then — well, it was too much to say that there was no point. But he wasn’t sure what the point would be. He’d have his revenge, and he’d thought for a long time that would be enough. But now, no. He wanted her.
Before he walked out of the house, he’d gone upstairs, looking for her. She was gone. He checked all the rooms twice before he accepted that she’d slipped out without saying anything to him. After the argument they’d had, he wasn’t exactly surprised, but he’d still hoped it wouldn’t be true.
He had to push that awareness out of his mind. He had to focus. He was already jumping at shadows more than enough. He would fix things with Jessie when this was done, when he was a complete man again. When he’d finally chased away the ghosts.
He started the bike and put it into gear, then drove slowly out of the residential neighborhood. Eddie would follow him; Hendricks was taking a nap in the trunk of Eddie’s personal vehicle. It was strange how peaceful the man had looked when they’d injected him with whatever compound it was that Eddie had pulled out of his pocket. His face slack in chemical sleep, he’d looked younger than his daughter.
The man he’d become tonight frightened him. He’d always been aware, of course, that those dark impulses were buried, not destroyed. He’d been too well trained to ever really leave all of that behind. But it had come to the forefront so quickly, the knowledge of where to land his blows to maximize pain without threatening the man’s consciousness. The almost instinctive sense of how much would be too much. And how easily he’d maintained perfect control, until — until he didn’t, and he hit Hendricks too hard, splitting his knuckles open and unleashing the very darkest part of himself. The part that had given even his COs a minute of pause. Because the Army only wanted darkness that it could direct.
He shook his head a little, chasing away the twisting thoughts. He couldn’t wander those paths tonight, not while he was driving his motorcycle too fast over mountain roads and trying to plan out how to move forward against the Racketeers. The encounter at the bar had taken him all the way to the bad place, and escaping wasn’t enough to put that beast away. The fact that he’d been able to pull back at all, hadn’t actually killed Hendricks just so his daughter would never need to worry about him darkening her doorstep ever again, was something to be proud of. He was pretty sure, anyway.
Maybe if he got through this night in one piece, he could ask Jessie to help him find a therapist who wasn’t a kook and then he could ask. Because at the same time that he was pleased he’d been able to hold back, keep the beast caged, he’d also known all he was doing was making this Jessie’s choice. And he knew he had the gonads necessary to be the arbiter of someone else’s fate, but did she? Would she thank him when he told her what happened to Smokey Hendricks was up to her? Even if she abdicated the choice and told him to sort it out, she would know what that meant. She would know what she was choosing.
The cold, dark part of him noted that he would learn a lot about Jessie when that conversation happened. He wondered what she would choose, what factors she would weigh, and what, ultimately, she would decide to do. It was cruel, perhaps, to foist that on her, but he had enough blood on his hands already.
His brain kept trying to remind him of the sick, too easy feeling of his skin splitting over his knuckles when he misjudged and hit Hendricks too hard. He’d never been good at delivering a beating. He didn’t like the flesh-on-flesh contact the way some guys did, but he also never been comfortable using tools. It was too easy to misjudge, and turn a beating into murder. Still, it was the one aspect of the club he’d been more than happy to hand over to Take when Tex had taken on the role of President. It wasn’t often that the Sons were involved in that kind of hand-to-hand combat anymore, but in the early days, times had been rougher.
But the good thing, the powerful thing, was that he finally had a name. He knew Mac from when he’d still been living rough in Los Angeles, trying to find a steady thing to tie him down and keep him from floating away. The guy had a mean streak so big it didn’t leave much room for anything else. He was short, scrawny, had a bright red flare of hair that he kept buzzed. His pale skin was perpetually sunburned, the back of his neck bright red with permanent discoloration. He was vicious and mean-tempered. He’d been running supplies to Hendricks, some of the stuff that wasn’t so easy to just order over the Internet anymore, in exchange for a discount on product for the Racketeers.
Hendricks had, as Tex heard, taken more supplies than he could easily move, and had decided to use the remainder as a personal stash. By the time Mac had caught on, Hendricks had used up the extra. He was high as a kite when Mac threatened him and instead of clamping his fool mouth shut, had confirmed the rumor that he had a family up in Castello. He’d skipped out on mentioning that they didn’t give two shits about him, so Mac thought threatening Hendricks’s kid would make his personal magic maker straighten up and fly right. Only Hendricks hadn’t been able to get his shit together, and Mac had sent Pedey to kill a son because of his estranged father’s sins.
Tex’s hands tightened on the handlebars of his bike, and he had to force himself to breathe through the light-headed sensation that threatened to send him out of control. He missed the warmth of Jessie against his back. He’d never thought of riding solo as cold before, but now? It felt different. It felt, well, lonely. When had he become a man who got lonely?
He forced himself to count things as they rode out the last miles to the orchard. Forty-seven road signs later, his tires spun into the gravel outside Polanco’s. Eddie was still right behind him, and Take was already crossing from the old barn as Tex parked his bike and swung his leg off. “Brought a present,” Tex said.
Take’s eyebrows lifted as Eddie opened the truck of the old sedan and lifted a dizzy and sickened Hendricks out. “What’s this?”
“Smokey Hendricks, methmaker for the Racketeers,” Tex replied. “Piece of shit extraordinaire. Source of information on the move the Racketeers are making.”
“And your personal vendetta,” Take added.
“And that.”
“What’s your plan for him?”
Tex’s gut twisted. If Jessie never spoke to him again, what would he do? Make the choice for her? Let him go or kill him, both choices were evil, and he couldn’t think.
Another long breath, this one harsher than the one before. He couldn’t fall apart here, not now. It was too important. He had to stay focused. He dugs his fingers into his palms, finding a pressure point and letting the pain ground him in the moment. “For right now, contain him,” he said, his voice coming from far away. “It’s Jessie’s call, what happens after that.” He watched the faces of those around him, searching for any signs of disrespect or irritation. He didn’t see any. There were nods, agreement, and understanding. People had put together one thing and another and understood who Jessie was, and who they were here to deal with.
“What’s next for us?” Take asked, bracing. “Should I get the rest of the club riding?”
He was asking if they were going to war, and Tex flinched away from the question. He’d fought one war already, fought it twice, and he had no need to fight another. But these were his soldiers, and he was responsible for them. Just like before. He had to accomplish the objective, but he had to get everyone out safe and alive. The town of Castello had become the theater of the conflict, and he needed to defend it.
He shook his head, trying to clear out the old patterns, kick his thoughts loose from those well worn grooves, but his heart was racing and there was hot, stinky sweat under his arms, and he was going to fall apart if he didn’t get away from everyone staring at him. “Mac gets one chance to make this right,” his voice still coming from somewhere in the sky. “I’m calling him. If he pisses me off, well, then we ride. Tell the others that. And tell everyone who came with us to get ready. To watch out. Because if Pedey knows we took Smokey, then we could be in danger, even here.”
Take nodded, turning to issue orders in every direction, and Tex stepped back before his knees buckled. He made it into the house, pushing himself down the hallway to his office, then dropping into his chair, completely exhausted. He let the fear and the nerves take him for a little while, and then he forced himself to open the drawer of his desk. He kept a small stash of Ativan there, just in case. He didn’t like taking benzos regularly. They were addictive, and to get off them you needed a doctor to keep an eye on you, but they also worked. The prescription wasn’t his, of course, but of all the various horrible things he’d done, it wasn’t going to be 20 half-milligram pills of Lorazepam that got him caught.
The bottle had long since passed its expiration date. He’d been doing well enough that he hadn’t needed one in more than a year. Why this situation was pushing his buttons so hard he didn’t know (which was a total lie, of course he knew, it was Danny, his first brother-in-arms, his first failure) but he couldn’t call Mac like this, couldn’t lead his soldiers — friends — into battle like this. Take had put a mini fridge in the office when he’d seen how much Jessie liked to have her water very cold, and Tex pulled a bottle out, twisting off the cap and taking the tiny pill with a big slug. It was funny, how such a minuscule thing could reset his brain so completely.
It took about an hour to reach full effectiveness, but the relief of knowing that help was incoming was immediate. He closed his eyes and waited for the feeling of a demon clawing through his innards to recede, fading back into a sense of concern and fear that he could actually manage.
When his pulse had slowed and his heartbeat was no longer thrumming in his throat, he opened his eyes. The water had gotten warmer on the desk, and a little puddle of condensation had collected around the bottle’s base. He took another long sip, and then picked up his phone. He’d had Mac’s number in there for years. He didn’t like how the Racketeers did things, but that didn’t mean there weren’t times when they had to work together, share information, or drive someone else out of the borderlands of their territory in order to protect both of their clubs. He’d never thought Pedey could have gotten his orders from Mac. Mac hadn’t ever exhibited this kind of planned violence before.
But then, he only had to do it the once. Tex’s stomach flipped, and he closed his eyes one more time, waited for the bile to settle, and tapped the button to call the number.
Mac answered quickly. “Tex, old friend! What can I do ya for?” The jackass was now affecting an Irish brogue. Badly. God, that was awful.
“Mac,” Tex said, then took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to express the seriousness of his mood in his tone. “We need to talk.”
“Do we?” Mac dropped the relaxed, fun tone almost immediately. “What about?”
“Are you going to play me for the fool? Now?”
He could almost see the little man shrug. “What’s new, really? You’ve always thought you were so coy, when what you were was soft. Always so soft. Thought you were running a club for grown men, but you’re nothing but little boys and pansies.”
The first words that ran up his throat were something about I’ll show you soft but Tex forced himself to choke those back. They would escalate the situation without getting him any more information, and they wouldn’t help. Not him, not Jessie, not Danny. “Big talk,” Tex said, knowing it still sounded defensive, but figuring he could keep his tone tight and lose with those words. It worked, mostly. “But you seem to have something on your mind. Want to share?”
“You have something that belongs to me.” The jovial tone returned to Mac’s voice, but there was nothing sincere about it. Tex’s gut gave another almighty twist.
“Something? Interesting choice of words.”
Mac gave a hearty laugh that added static to the line for just a moment. “Smokey ain’t been a person since he started tweaking, and certainly not since he traded his son for more of that shite. If you think to use him as a bargaining chip, you’re going to be disappointed with the ransom I’ll offer.”
“What ransom would you offer?”
Another of those laughs. “If you offered to suck my cock really well, I’d consider taking him off your hands.”
Tex choked back a snarl. “Your cock doesn’t deserve my mouth,” he spat out, and Mac laughed. But this time, there was maybe the beginnings of a nervous hint to it. He’d expected Tex to fold quickly, giving up, or fly into a rage and scream. That he wasn’t really doing either one seemed to be setting the little man off script.
“So you don’t want to trade him, and you don’t want to keep him, because no one wants to keep him. What the fuck do you want?”
“Pedey.”
“No.”
“I’m taking him, Mac. One way or another. He owes me a blood debt. I will take it out of his hide.”
There was a long moment of silence, and then the sound of boots thumping over wood, followed by a closing door. “What’s going on, Tex?” Mac asked. His voice was calmer, quieter, almost gentle and fatherly. Tex had to remind himself that this man had been surviving on the rough side of Los Angeles for more years than Tex had been alive. Mac would play him if he could, act the innocent to protect himself and his club. Tex couldn’t fault him for that, not really. He’d do the exact same thing if the sides were flipped.
No, that wasn’t true. If one of his people had murdered a kid, he’d deal with them himself. Mac didn’t have the stones for that.
“Don’t try to play me, Mac,” Tex said, letting his anger rise from a simmer into an active boil. He meant to keep going, but Mac cut him off with a small laugh.
“Funny words, coming from you, big man. You think you didn’t get made tonight, up with your girlfriend at that stupid piece of shit bar? What were you thinking, pretending you were someone else? Trying to get on the inside of my club? To what end? What was your big master plan?”
Shit. Shit, this was not going the right way. “Listen to me, Mac,”
“No, you listen.” Mac’s voice cracked like a whip, and Tex’s mouth snapped shut whether he liked it or not. “You fucked with what’s mine, and you will not do that again, do you understand? I don’t care what game you’re playing, it ends now. You don’t take my people, you don’t take my territory, and you don’t fucking complain.” A brief pause for breath. “The girl is cute, I’ll give you that. Small in the tits, from what I hear, but then, they say more than a mouthful’s a waste. I like to drown in ‘em, myself. Fuck motorboating, give me a yacht, you know what I mean?”
God, if Mac were in front of him, Tex would seriously consider stabbing him just to make his foul mouth stop running. “Danny Hendricks,” he said.
He wasn’t sure what would happen; he thought Mac might end the call, or curse him out, or anything. The utter silence that followed was unnerving. Finally, Mac replied “What did you say?”
“Danny Hendricks. You killed him.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Smokey gave you up.”
“Smokey Hendricks? That fucking tweaker? Surprised he can still talk, last time I saw him his teeth were rotting right out of his fucking face, he’d done so much crank.”
“Stop lying, Mac.” A calm had descended. The same calm he’d felt looking through a rifle sight, exhaling halfway, and then pulling the trigger. “You were Sergeant for the Racketeers back then, and you were in charge of making sure Hendricks delivered. And he wasn’t, because he was using too much of his own manufacture, and so you tried to send him a message. And you used Pedey to do it. And now we’re going to settle up.”
It was funny; down the road, Tex looked back and thought of that as the last moment Mac could have changed things for himself. If he’d said that someone else had ordered it, or even if he’d said it was a mistake and he was sorry, offered a wergild to Jessie and her mother, Tex might have taken him up on it. Taken Pedey, taken the money, and called it done.
But instead, Mac burst out laughing all over again, and Tex’s blood turned to ice in his veins. “You’re a fucking laugh-riot, Garret Brewer,” Mac said, “even without your fucking gay man-bun. You think you can bring the pain, then you bring it. We’ll be ready for you. No fear, you piece of shit, none at all.”
The call disconnected, and Tex sat there, holding the silent phone in his hand.
He finished the water, which had grown warm by now, and then stood up, slow and steady. It was time to tell Take they would ride.