Page 122 of Seizing Control: Part One

“Should put a fuckin’ bullet in his head and be done with it,” a familiar voice declares.

My addled brain can’t put a name to the voice.

The same thing happens with the next man to speak.

“Cherub’ll never forgive us... we needa find somewhere to take him so we can sober his arse up. Can’t have him around her while he’s in this state.”

Cherub.

My wife.

It hurts to even think about her.

I thought the ritual would be the worst thing I’ve ever done to her.

Turns out I haven’t even scraped the bottom of the barrel yet...

“Dibs on it not bein’ my house,” another male voice interjects. “I’ve already got Everett mopin’ around... don’t have room to detox my president.”

Cub.

My brain supplies a name finally.

If I wasn’t floating high, my feelings would be hurt at him not wanting me in his house.

“There’s no space at mine,” the second man interjects. “Plus, my girls aren’t real good at keepin’ their mouths shut. The news of his state’ll get out quickly if one of them sees him.”

As I’m scrambling to name him, the first voice angrily sighs. “’Spose I could ask Dad... he’ll talk to Mumma—see if she’s okay with cleanin’ him up in time for the funeral.”

Cub and Toker are immediately on board.

“That’ll work,” Cub agrees.

“It ain’t optimal.” Toker is a little more sceptical, but still concurs. “Sounds like the only viable option we have, but.”

“Fine.” My younger brother sounds as unhappy as I’ve ever heard him. “Looks like I’m lumped with the self-destructive idiot.”

“Fuckin’ wit’ my buzz,” I mumble. Hunter’s griping is taking the top off my high. All the feelings I’m trying to escape are contained within his matter-of-fact assessment of the situation. “Dunno why I gotta go wit?—”

“Hey, hey,” a fourth voice—one that I instantly recognise as Meeyal—interjects as scuffling breaks out. I hear the slide of a handgun being racked, and the idea of eternal oblivion makes me smile. “Can’t put a bullet in him, just yet. The Adjudicator wants him alive and at the head of the Shamrocks for the moment.”

“The Adjudicator,” Toker scoffs. “Your daddy and his demands are getting’ on my last nerve.”

“My daddy and his demands are the only reason the Shamrocks still exist.”

“Beg to motherfuckin’ differ,” Cub scoffs. “Your dad is a dick.”

When the world tips, then I find myself hanging over a beefy shoulder, bile surges into my mouth. I haven’t had anything to eat since I left the compound after Cub played the vision of Venom’s last moments on earth. My diet has consisted of beer, whiskey, and cigarettes, chased down with lines of crystal meth and coke.

“Put me... down.”

“Sure,” Toker grunts as he hoists me higher on his shoulder. “Soon as I’ve got you in the van.”

“Gonna... spew.” In the same second as I say the final word, then action follows. I throw up the entire way to the blacked-out Shamrocks van. “Tok-er. Fuck. Stop.”

“Just aim at the ground,” he cautions while I purge the alcohol from my system. I keep my eyes screwed shut when the daylight we emerge into makes my head thump. “Fuck me, Slash. I said aim at the ground, not my arse.”

“He stinks,” Cub offers once Toker has slung me on the floor of the van.

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