I hear the rumble of an old Jeep pulling away. “What do you think of him?” Brad asks, joining me on the shore.
“Well, he fits in around here.” The kid, Leon, is all blond curls, bandanas, boardshorts, and pot. But he’s smart. That was obvious very quickly.
Brad nods. “And this?” he asks, motioning in the general direction of everything.
“Perfect.” That’s exactly why we tried to buy it three years ago. Byron’s Reach is a prime location to ship anything illegal into the country. It’s secluded. Unmatched access. If I didn’t know better, I’d ask why the fuck it hasn’t been snapped up by a rival. Namely, The Bear. He deals in drugs, women, and guns. Or his minions do. But I do know better. After the massacre left behind three years ago when I sold my soul to the Russians and they turned on me, there’s an understandable stigma attached to this area. The latest body was dragged out of the water only a few months back. Unidentifiable. The criminals know this place was on the FBI’s radar. I should avoid it like the plague.
Should.
I won’t.
James’s offer to rent the land was snapped up by the legal team managing the Jepson kid’s estate. Now he’s in negotiations to buy it.
I smile, casting my eye across the still ocean, taking my shades off to get the full force of the sun reflecting off the surface. There will be jet skis flying across this water in no time. A bustling cabin. An arsenal fit to kick off a world war.
I look over my shoulder, to what was a huge hole in the ground. It’s shaping up to be a very useful and compulsory bunker. Or gun store. “Are we on track?” I ask Brad, taking in the cabling and pipelines. Chaka pulled through, unsurprisingly. The shipment arrives this weekend.
“Ahead of schedule. They’ll be finished tomorrow.”
“Impressive.”
“It’s come at a price.”
“But cheaper than losing, eh?” An army of men are working through the night, and the fruits of their labor are plain to see. The extravagant cabin, a match of the one Pops built across the water but twice as big, is holding court, and the quay’s complete. It took Pops two months to build Winstable. We’ll have completed Byron’s Reach in two weeks. Tough going, but essential, and not only because we have stock arriving imminently—both of the legal variety and illegal variety. We need to get this bunker concealed before we have any unexpected guests, namely the MPD or Feds. I’ve spent over two weeks lying low, letting the whispers of my resurgence be whispers. It’s only a matter of time before the police catch wind of those whispers. Speaking of which . . .
“What’s our friend Spittle up to?” I slip my shades back on and turn, starting a casual stroll through the site with Brad flanking me. “Still got his dick intact?”
“Len’s on him twenty-four/seven. His house is on the market and his wife’s in contact with a realtor on the West Coast. Sounds like we’ve pushed him into relocating.”
I pull out a cigarette and offer one to Brad.
He waves me off. “You need to quit.”
I light up and take a long, needed drag. “For a man who hates the obvious being stated, you do it a fucking lot.”
“Fuck you,” he mutters, and I laugh, pinching a sliver of tobacco off the end of my tongue. “How’s Rose?” He makes a point of blatantly checking my nose.
“Rose is Rose.” Glorious. Fragile but tough, all at the same time.
“You told her about this place yet?”
“She’s distracted.”
“The wedding,” he sighs, showing his disapproval once again. “Bad idea.”
“I had to give her something, Brad. Besides, while she’s drowning in the logistics of that, she’s not on my case. How’s Hiatus?” I ask, steering away from yet another occasion when Brad has stated the fucking obvious. Of course the wedding is a bad idea, but I couldn’t deny her. Give and take, and all that bollocks. “Ironic name for a club, by the way. Especially your club.”
He laughs over an eye roll. “It’s smooth. No shootings and no enemies. For now.”
“You watching your back?” I ask, showing concern we both know is rare. It’s pure luck Brad dodged Spittle’s bullet. Nothing more, nothing less. We don’t operate on luck.
“Like a fucking hawk, man.” He holds out his hand. “Give me one of those smokes.”
I smile and hand them over, looking over his shoulder when I see James pull up. Brad turns as he lights up, exhaling on a satisfied sigh. “I’m literally surrounded by dead men walking.”
“Feeling left out?” I ask on a grin. “Because I can fix that.”
He laughs. “Not much in life is guaranteed, Danny. But I can guarantee you’d never kill me. Your wife, on the other hand, is a different matter entirely. She’s going to go into full-on demonic mode when she finds out about this place.” He takes another drag of his cigarette, like a hit of nicotine can douse the nerves that thought spikes. “And do I need to point out that the reasons you and him”—he motions to James who’s nearing—“are walking dead because you got yourselves a bit of ass.”
“If she hears you refer to her like that, Rose will definitely kill you. Watch your words.”
“Who’s Rose going to kill?” James asks, obviously hearing the tail end of our conversation.
“That brave motherfucker.” I point my cigarette at Brad before giving James my attention. “What do you know?”
“I know no one’s in the market for a new supplier in armory.” James takes his phone out and frowns at the screen.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Woman trouble,” James mutters, and Brad chuckles, getting dark looks thrown his way from both of us. “You want to add me to the list of people who’ll kill you?”
“Fuck me,” Brad breathes. “You two are tetchy today. So no one’s in the game for a new supplier?”
“Not for guns, not for drugs, and not for women.” James gives me a look, the look, and I pout to myself.
Seems The Bear has all areas of criminal activity covered. “And you found this out how?”
“Vince Roake.”
“Vince Roake?” Brads asks as I frown, the name familiar.
And it comes to me. “The one they call The Alligator?”
“That’s the one. Started small time.” A flurry of malice flutters through James’s blue eyes. “Jaz Hayley arrested him before I could butcher him. He’s been on remand ever since.”
“Ah, the dead judge,” Brad says, and then he frowns. “Why’d they call him The Alligator?”
“He was known to snap.”
“What’s with all these fucking animal names?” I ask. “It’s like the set of fucking Sesame Street.” They think they’re animals? I laugh under my breath. They’ve not met me yet.
James smirks, and Brad coughs over his laughter. “So Vince Roake volunteered this information to you, did he?”
“No, his next-in-command did.”
“Why would he do that?”
James sweeps his arm out, all chivalrous, his smile sick. “After you, gentleman,” he says calmly, and I eye him, following his instruction, walking to his Range Rover. The boot starts opening before we make it there, and I round the car, finishing off my smoke and flicking it away.