I need to know, Frankie.” I stepped off the pedestal and clapped him on the shoulder.
“What’s my payment?” He stuck the burning cigar into a corner of his mouth, speaking around it.
“Respect, man.” I clasped his hand in mine. “Nothing short of my respect.”
“ Madon . You got it. But only because of your big cojones . ”
“That was really Frankie Burelli?” Walker asked as we strode outside.
“In the flesh. Keep walking and don’t look back.”
I heard the bell jingle as Frankie stuck his head out the door behind us. “Respect ain’t keeping me warm at night, fellas!”
Walker’s face paled, and he kept his eyes on the pavement. “So, he could kill us—trained mercs.”
“Pretty much.”
“Nice friends you got.”
“You should know.”
Chapter Eight
I LET WALKER MOVE his crap—C-4 and all—into the house. I wouldn’t let him near Jack’s bedroom but showed him to the spare.
“This place is already wired, locked down, airtight. The WiFi is encrypted, dedicated, not your mom’s maiden name password protected. I don’t get cable. The only phones are my cells. There’s no safe room, but my armory is in the basement.” I watched as Walker hefted his big black bag onto the bed. “Feel safe?” I spoke through clenched teeth, anxiety for Jack, Mel, and Jessica’s welfare putting paid to any deceptive calm cool edge.
“As houses,” Walker remarked, unpacking his firearms.
I wanted to break doors off the hinges, hit plaster with my knuckles. If I’d put my people in danger because of Vicente fucking Valderas, I’d make sure he’d die a long, lonesome, cruel death.
Instead of going hari-kari on my house, I made four sandwiches, wielding the knife like a stabbing blade, mutilating the head of lettuce and pretty much committing murder on the tomatoes.
Walker hung back at the door of the kitchen. “Master chef, you are not.”
“Eat this and shut it.” I slid a plate across the table.
In ten large bites, his sandwiches disappeared. Mine didn’t last much longer.
“I need to get the lay of the land.” He swallowed down half his beer and wiped his lips.
“Go for it, desperado.”
“I’m talking about Retribution MC.”
“I’m not fucking piggybacking you there on my bike.”
He grinned, placidly rebraiding his hair and adding a few new trinkets to the ends. “Lied about the Scout. Parked it a few miles back.”
We thundered into Retribution compound half an hour later. Inside, pool, dancing, and darts were in action.
“Nice set up,” Walker sat next to the bar. “The nanny cams still live?”
“Twenty-four-seven.”
“Trust issues, as always.”
Cole appeared at my elbow with questions filling his acute eyes, but he knew better than to talk out of turn when confronted with a newcomer and me, glaring all around. He set two neat whiskeys in front of us. With a clink of glasses, we downed the blazing, throat-burning alcohol, setting up for another round.
My thoughts churned to a stop when Jessica entered the clubhouse. The chestnut curls framed her sweetly freckled face. But then there were the sinister black leather thigh-high boots that didn’t reach the bottom of her mini skirt. And when she took off her jacket, my tongue dragged on the floor.
Was that a corset she was wearing?
“She’s yours.” Walker pointed her out in two seconds flat. “JB. Miss Barnes?”
“Touch her, talk to her, and die,” I growled. There was no way I wanted her to know about my dirty past with the Silent Walker.
“Achilles heel. Gonna bite you in the ass.”
“Not before I have her ass.” And that ass, holy hell.
I snaked through the crowded room, intent on making it to JB before any other bozo got similar ideas. She leaned over the pool table and—maybe care of her cleavage jutting out, maybe because of her prowess at knocking balls into pockets—wagers were already being placed.
Brodie snagged me to him, his huge silver rings cold against
“What’s my payment?” He stuck the burning cigar into a corner of his mouth, speaking around it.
“Respect, man.” I clasped his hand in mine. “Nothing short of my respect.”
“ Madon . You got it. But only because of your big cojones . ”
“That was really Frankie Burelli?” Walker asked as we strode outside.
“In the flesh. Keep walking and don’t look back.”
I heard the bell jingle as Frankie stuck his head out the door behind us. “Respect ain’t keeping me warm at night, fellas!”
Walker’s face paled, and he kept his eyes on the pavement. “So, he could kill us—trained mercs.”
“Pretty much.”
“Nice friends you got.”
“You should know.”
Chapter Eight
I LET WALKER MOVE his crap—C-4 and all—into the house. I wouldn’t let him near Jack’s bedroom but showed him to the spare.
“This place is already wired, locked down, airtight. The WiFi is encrypted, dedicated, not your mom’s maiden name password protected. I don’t get cable. The only phones are my cells. There’s no safe room, but my armory is in the basement.” I watched as Walker hefted his big black bag onto the bed. “Feel safe?” I spoke through clenched teeth, anxiety for Jack, Mel, and Jessica’s welfare putting paid to any deceptive calm cool edge.
“As houses,” Walker remarked, unpacking his firearms.
I wanted to break doors off the hinges, hit plaster with my knuckles. If I’d put my people in danger because of Vicente fucking Valderas, I’d make sure he’d die a long, lonesome, cruel death.
Instead of going hari-kari on my house, I made four sandwiches, wielding the knife like a stabbing blade, mutilating the head of lettuce and pretty much committing murder on the tomatoes.
Walker hung back at the door of the kitchen. “Master chef, you are not.”
“Eat this and shut it.” I slid a plate across the table.
In ten large bites, his sandwiches disappeared. Mine didn’t last much longer.
“I need to get the lay of the land.” He swallowed down half his beer and wiped his lips.
“Go for it, desperado.”
“I’m talking about Retribution MC.”
“I’m not fucking piggybacking you there on my bike.”
He grinned, placidly rebraiding his hair and adding a few new trinkets to the ends. “Lied about the Scout. Parked it a few miles back.”
We thundered into Retribution compound half an hour later. Inside, pool, dancing, and darts were in action.
“Nice set up,” Walker sat next to the bar. “The nanny cams still live?”
“Twenty-four-seven.”
“Trust issues, as always.”
Cole appeared at my elbow with questions filling his acute eyes, but he knew better than to talk out of turn when confronted with a newcomer and me, glaring all around. He set two neat whiskeys in front of us. With a clink of glasses, we downed the blazing, throat-burning alcohol, setting up for another round.
My thoughts churned to a stop when Jessica entered the clubhouse. The chestnut curls framed her sweetly freckled face. But then there were the sinister black leather thigh-high boots that didn’t reach the bottom of her mini skirt. And when she took off her jacket, my tongue dragged on the floor.
Was that a corset she was wearing?
“She’s yours.” Walker pointed her out in two seconds flat. “JB. Miss Barnes?”
“Touch her, talk to her, and die,” I growled. There was no way I wanted her to know about my dirty past with the Silent Walker.
“Achilles heel. Gonna bite you in the ass.”
“Not before I have her ass.” And that ass, holy hell.
I snaked through the crowded room, intent on making it to JB before any other bozo got similar ideas. She leaned over the pool table and—maybe care of her cleavage jutting out, maybe because of her prowess at knocking balls into pockets—wagers were already being placed.
Brodie snagged me to him, his huge silver rings cold against
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