Page 68 of Riordan's Revenge

Shade tapped the steering wheel. “There’s something else. Arran and I saw him take down one of our crew. He said that Red was out of town, and I got the impression he was hostile to his boss. This was the night Alisha died.”

“Who did he take down?” My mind supplied the answer as I framed the question. “Convict, right?”

“Aye. He throttled him then somehow knocked him out. It was too dark to see.”

Riordan shifted in his seat. “Is Convict still alive?”

“Unknown.”

The two men swapped an expression of disquiet.

My mind raced. “I’m going to make a quick call. I’ll put it on loudspeaker. Then ye can tell me how I need to behave.”

To his muttering about who was running the show, I dialled my Skeleton Girls Detective Agency group with a voice call. Genevieve and Everly both answered.

I told them where I was and who with, then asked my question. “I just wanted to go over the deaths one more time so I can work out what I want to get from tonight.”

Genevieve snorted. “An admission of guilt would be nice.”

“He’s hardly going to do that,” Everly said. With measured consideration, she walked me through all the facts we knewabout the murders. How each woman was discovered. What was in her post-mortem. What we knew about her background.

Cherry, Natasha, Amelia, and Alisha. They wouldn’t be left unavenged.

When we were done, I hung up and let my thoughts simmer. Tyler’s words surfaced.

“If Bronson is discontented with Red,” I mused, “his motive could be a hostile takeover of the Four Milers with the murders his proof that he can lead them successfully.”

Shade turned off the road, into the car park of an industrial building. Grey sidings. No company name on the front. “Exactly where I landed. What approach would ye take?”

The car stopped inside the wide frontage of the building.

I wrangled my fingers together.

“That we only give a fuck about Alisha. We can’t tolerate the slight to the skeleton crew. He owes us for her alone, and he has an opportunity to make amends. Therefore, for him, he still has a chance to take over from Red. Behind that, we test him on the other killings. There are details we know that never made it to the press.”

Shade killed the engine and twisted in his seat. “Good. Now for your behaviour in the room. I’m the lead. I do the work and I call the shots. He’s my prisoner. Ye can listen in but you’ll stay out of his eyeline, at least until we know why he’s interested in ye. Say one fucking word, and you’re gone.”

I bristled, filled with energy, ready to go. “Fine.”

Riordan stalled us. “I have a theory. Moniqua told me Red went to her flat to try to recruit her. What if she named you as a target? She could’ve acted in desperation. Given a name of someone she’d recently heard of. She didn’t seem that pressed about me, but she knows who you are, and the bitchy move fits.”

I chewed on that, because a similar thought had occurred to me. I’d only been on the Deadwater scene a couple of months.The people in the club knew me, but I’d had no interactions with the other gangs in the city. Not like Alisha would’ve done. My name on their lips made no sense, unless it was given to them.

Shade directed my thoughts. “There’s only one way to find out. Let’s go slice and dice Bronson.”

Chapter 22

Riordan

Inside the cavernous, windswept space, Shade strode to the far left of the building, a set of steps leading down to a subterranean level. We followed. The wind cut out, replaced by a thudding sound—the music Cassie had guessed would be part of Bronson’s psychological torture.

She’d been on the money. Scarily so.

Some of the skeleton crew who’d come with us remained upstairs while another unlocked a door at the bottom of the metal steps, revealing a domed ceiling over a wide, underground room with the feel of an air-raid shelter or a bunker. He locked us in, and my spine tingled with anticipation. Or perhaps mild panic. I wasn’t claustrophobic, but the place had a bad vibe. Nothing good happened here.

The back wall of the bunker contained a reinforced door, multiple locks securing it closed. Two guards stood either side, and at a desk nearer us, monitors displayed a nightmarish view of inside that room.

Of a man, trussed up by his feet which were tied to a hook so he dangled from a metal beam. Each hand was also constrained, and outstretched so he was inverted in a swan dive pose. Over his head, a burlap sack concealed his features. It didn’t hide the pain he was in.

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