Page 2 of Lucky Strike

Back at the truck, Tristan’s evaluating our losses. “A little more than half the guns are gone, but I’m betting we’ll find a bunch in those vans out there.”

“Robbie said there were four vans total, six or seven guys.”

“Fuck.”

Nodding, I send a coded message to our father, letting him know what we found. “We gotta get Robbie to the doctor. Move the rest of this,” I tell Tristan. “Take Malachi with you.”

“Done.”

“You have what you need?” I ask.

“Carl’s on his way with the other truck.”

“How far out?”

“Thirty minutes.”

I don’t like the thought of them waiting around in the dark for that long, but this is plan B, the contingency we’ve had in place for years but have never had to use. Until now.

“Please …”

The pitiful appeal fades on a breath of exhaustion. Jay’s young, barely out of his teens, but old enough to know better. I check my watch—two thirty-three in the morning—and give Alex a nod. Hedelivers two shallow jabs to the ribs, not enough to break any bones. Just enough to keep the pain fresh. Purposeful.

“S-stop,” Jay begs, panting as he doubles over. Well, as much as he can tied to a chair. “Please, Lucky.”

Tossing my cigarette butt to the grimy, concrete floor, I come close enough that my Ferragamos kiss the tips of his Jordans. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

“You do.”

Alex blesses him with a light punch across the left cheek. He knows what he’s doing. He knows the damage has been done, that there’s no need to destroy this kid. Not yet. Tristan sighs loudly from across the room as he sparks another cigarette. This is why I keep him from doing dirty work. He’s preternaturally strong, hyper-focused and impatient, and there are few things he finds more cathartic than throwing a punch. But once he gets started, he doesn’t know how to hold back. It comes in handy sometimes, but not for situations that need to be finessed. Situations like this.

Jay groans, blood-tinged saliva dribbling down his chin as he keels to the side.

“I think you think this is a joke.”

“Swear to God, Lucky, I don’t!”

“I lost three guys, Jay. And a lot of money.” I fiddle with the lighter in my pocket. I’ve been trying to quit. “Would’ve lost more had we not gotten there when we did.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“You do, huh? Then give me a name.”

He swallows, his chest rising and falling in quick, panicky breaths.

“Jay …” I prompt, nudging his sneaker with my shoe. “It’s late and I’m fuckin’ tired. There are two ways to stop this. You can either tell us who set it up or we can let you go to sleep for good.” I look at Alex, who closes in.

“Wait,” the kid whispers. “Marty.”

“What was that?”

“Marty Price.”

Tristan chuckles darkly. “I knew I didn’t trust that fucka.”

“Was that so hard?” I ask, squatting so I can look Jay square in his half-shut eye. “Marty might seem scary to you, but he ain’t shit. Now,what I need to know is if you’re going to help us take him out or not.”

---