“I don’t need a zanny,” I spit. “I need to make sure Jack’s fucks off back to wherever the hell he came from.”
Monty and my father are not friends.
That’s what Zander said.
When he petitioned to become my legal guardian, Monty told me he owed it to Jack to look out for me, which means Monty’s been lying to me, keeping secrets…
My temper’s on a high simmer as I slam through the entrance into the Rock. For a Saturday, the place is uncharacteristically quiet. Barely anyone hanging out by the pool tables. The booths in the back by the rear bar are all empty, which is super weird.
Paulie, the bar tender, looks like he’s seen a ghost when he clocks me storming toward the ‘employees only’ entrance that leads to Monty’s office. “Alex, man! What are you doing here? Boss said you were gonna be off for a couple of weeks?”
I flip him the bird and a cutting grin at the same time, then enjoy watching him trying to figure out the greeting as I push open the door and disappear through it into the dark hallway beyond.
“Alex! ALEX!” The door opens again and Paul calls after me. “Hang back, brother. He’s got someone in there with him. Alex, are you listeni—”
No, I’m not listening. The moment I saw the other gleaming black Camaro out in the parking lot, I knew my sneaky bastard of a father had shown up here, bad blood or no. If my sperm donor’s having a tête-à-tête with the boss, then I want to know what the fuck they’re talking about. I’m so done with this bullshit. Dispensing with formality I don’t bother to knock, barging right into Monty’s office…only to find Monty pinned face-down on his desk by a man who most definitely is not my father.
The guy’s head whips up, and I’m met with the cold, dead eyes of a killer. I don’t even think. I fucking duck, because that’s what my fight or flight reflex screams at me to do. There’s a swift thunk overhead, followed by the sharp, juddering sound of wobbling metal, and…holy fucking shit…I look up and there’s a mean-looking serrated hunting knife buried an inch deep in the staff notice board, right where my head was a moment ago.
“Wait, wait, wait! Fuck’s sake!” Monty hollers. “Relax, okay! He’s just a fucking kid. Alex, get the fuck out of here. NOW!” There’s genuine concern in his voice. For a split second, I almost believe that he does actually care about me and this hasn’t all been some kind of game to him.
The guy grinding Monty’s head into his computer keyboard hasn’t even blinked. He’s a monster of a dude, built like a line-backer. I’ve been confronted with some dangerous motherfuckers in my time, but this guy looks like he’d put a bullet between my eyes without even flinching.
“Zeth! Zeth, I mean it, man. Just…don’t. Alex, get back in the bar and wait for me there.”
Hmm. What to do, what to do. Part of me wants to bolt down the hall and get the fuck out of here. But then there’s the part of me that’s craving chaos and destruction. The part of me that’s still reeling from everything that’s happened recently. It’s the dangerous part of me that wants to break open like rotten fruit and bleed out all of my pain, spilling my tangled guts out onto the earth…
I unfurl myself like a cat, straightening up with care, never taking my eyes off the guy. “If I walk back that way, I’m coming back with a shotgun,” I tell him.
“Better kill you where you stand then,” the other guy rumbles. His voice is so deep and rough, it sounds like he eats a side of glass with every meal.
“Jesus Christ, this is fucking ridiculous. Quit it, both of you. Zeth, sit back down,” Monty commands. “We can discuss this like the proper business-minded gentlemen that we are.”
The stranger, Zeth, runs me through with sharp, angry eyes, still staring me down. “I’m not business minded. I’m not gentle. I’m pissed. Sitting down ain’t gonna change that.”
Squaring my shoulders, I take a step forward into the office. Monty grits his teeth, baring them like a rabid dog. “Are you fucking deaf, kid? I told you to go.”
I look him dead in the eye—sharp, cold, and hostile. “I just had an interesting chat with Zander. He shed some light on your relationship with my father.”
“God’s sake, Alex. Now is not the fucking time! If you wanna be useful, go find Q. Tell him—”
Zeth tuts under his breath, leaning his weight forward onto Monty’s head. The added pressure of such a huge guy bearing down on his skull must be pretty spectacular, because Monty quits handing out his instructions and opens his mouth, yelling silently.
“Ever cracked someone’s head open, kid?” Zeth asks. “Seen inside their brain pan? Poked around in their grey matter? Pretty fucking fascinating stuff.”
Damn it. I’m not happy with Monty, but I don’t necessarily want him dead. Not yet, anyway. There are still a bunch of pressing questions that I’d like answers to. I take a step forward, ready to snap out a right hook, but Zeth’s eyes narrow a fraction, barely a millimeter, and I know it would be a bad idea. He sees me coming. I can attempt every trick I know to try and throw him off, but this guy’s a professional. He’s played all the plays. He’s wise to any deception I might try and throw at him. “The brain’s an interesting thing,” he continues. “Shielded by bone, floating around in all that cerebrospinal fluid, it has the power to create worlds. Build empires. Inspire nations. But poke at it with something sharp…in just the right way…”
“I didn’t come here for an anatomy lesson.”
He cocks his head sharply to one side. “I didn’t come here to teach one. I came here for a bag. Wouldn’t happen to know where it is, would you? Black? Kind you might take to the gym?”
Monty winces, hissing through his teeth, spit flying everywhere. “Keep your goddamn mouth shu—”
In a black blur of movement, startlingly fast, Zeth reaches around, grabs something silver and shining from the small of his back, and—
CRACK!
A hail of splinters explodes into the air. A curl of smoke, bitter-smelling and acrid, rises from the muzzle of the gun in Zeth’s hand. He just shot Monty’s desk, barely an inch away from the old bastard’s face.
“It occurs to me,” the man in the leather jacket says, “that you’re not taking this situation very seriously. Forgive me for not making myself clear. This isn’t a business meeting. It ain’t a friendly negotiation. The bag belongs to me. If I don’t get it back, I am gonna get fucking medieval on your ass. By all means, decide how the rest of your day is gonna look. No skin off my nose. I will find what I came here for…and I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to hang, draw and quarter someone.”
Monty’s as still as a marble statue, blinking like crazy. God knows what having a gun go off right next to your face will do to a man’s vision, but it can’t be good for you. “I—I—” he stammers. God, he’s a stubborn piece of shit. He nearly just took a bullet to the face, for fuck’s sake, and that shot wasn’t an empty threat. It was a reminder of what comes next if he doesn’t start playing ball.