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.”
Chapter 30
One month later
Stone
They love video games and pasta.
Nate looks over at me from the other side of the couch and just rolls his eyes. We’re out at his farm. We had this whole outdoor trek and meet-the-animals thing set up for the four boys who were stuck in that strip-mall basement, but they haven’t gotten past the sweet setup in the living room.
Cruz shovels spaghetti and meatballs into his face like he’s never eaten before in his life. Knox groans. “You’re getting tomato sauce on the controllers.”
“Got you!” One of the kids—Harley—blows up Grayson’s guy. Grayson’s laughing, working the controls, vowing to get them all back. Being the baby of the group, Grayson connects with the kids best.
Miles—he’s maybe thirteen—plays with sullen determination. He reminds me a lot of me. Angry. Hard-eyed. Zero trust. He was the oldest one, too.
The four of them know we were inside like they were. Years longer. They know we got them out, but we’re not here for a thank you or some big fucking emo moment. We’re giving them what we wanted when we got out. A place to be kids. To be their own kids.