Page 37 of Soulless Saint

Now though, I’d wager my intimidation game was even stronger than my old man’s, and I wielded it now, my nostrils flaring as I stared down each one of The Warden’s men in turn. Daring them to fuck with us.

Craving the release that only came from the clean arc of sharpened steel or a cascade of bullets burying bone deep into flesh.

Just give me a fucking reason, I taunted wordlessly. The devil knew I could use the distraction.

The Warden cleared his throat, readjusting his stance on the gravel, the spurs on his custom black boots tinkering loudly against the crumpled stone. “There’s been a slight change of plans,” he said, and I watched his Adam’s apple bob, noted the sweat beading on his forehead where the sun-reddened flesh met thinning brown hair. “We weren’t able to source the—”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Dad interrupted, his tone even despite the murder etched into the lines of his face. “Two weeks ago you told me you had everything on hand or en route so quit fucking me around and give it to me straight. Where are my fucking guns?”

The Warden paled, but stood straighter, his mouth working as he reconsidered his next words before he finally settled on what I gathered was the truth. “They ain’t coming, Damien.”

“Keep talking.”

“We, uh… we have ourselves a new client. One that would only partner with us if we offered them full exclusivity.”

My Dad spat on the cement floor. “The Sons.”

“I’m not at liberty to say, I’m afraid.”

“So,” said Dad, jabbing two fingers in the air between himself and The Warden. “You’re telling me you’re throwing away a fucking eight-year-long partnership? Kissing—what? —at least eighty percent of your business goodbye? And for what? To be exclusive to a new player you have no loyalty to?”

The Warden recoiled at his words, but my old man wasn’t finished.

“Tell me that’s not what you’re saying, Warden. You do not want to make an enemy of me.”

If it were possible, the arms dealer became even paler at Dad’s threat. “It ain’t that simple, Damien.”

“Enlighten us, then,” Kaleb piped up from Dad’s other side. “Or we’ll simplify it for you.”

“This new player, they ain’t messin’ around, D. I’ve never seen a man so… so… unhinged. He wants this territory. Your territory and he’s not going to stop until it’s his.”

I knew it.

We all did, but this was proof. The Sons of O’Sullivan were out for our blood. Our land. Our home.

Acid frothed in my stomach, burning its way through every one of my veins, engorging the muscle in my back like a fucking steroid injection. I shuddered at the buildup of unbridled rage, seeing through slitted eyes and a glossy red tint.

“He can fucking try,” I all but seethed.

The man to The Warden’s right jumped, actually fucking jumped at the sound of my voice, lurching back an entire step.

My Dad laid his hand on my shoulder, giving it a rough squeeze, telling me in his way to regain control.

I inhaled long through my nose, feeling my body quake on the exhale.

“And since when do you bend to the whims of terrorists, Warden?” my Dad asked, calmer than he had any right to be after the Warden’s admission. “Why not come to me? Why not ask for my help?”

The Warden dropped his head, but not before I saw the flash of pain cross his expression.

“Where’s Weston?” Kaleb asked, voicing the question I was thinking. A thousand scenarios rolled around in my head. The Warden said the new player, the leader of the Sons, was unhinged. What could he have done to make The Warden bend the knee?

It wasn’t fucking rocket science.

I knew before he opened his thin lips to tell us.

“Weston’s dead.”

He didn’t need to say anything else. The Sons had made their play. They offered The Warden a deal, likely with a lot of zeros attached to it, and when The Warden tried to refuse, they made a show of force. Standard practice.

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