Page 59 of Death's Deal

I don’t comply. I don’t care. “If they take a shot at me, I’ll make sure I take Murianos with me. I know the men who have my back will do the same to yours if you make a move against me.”

“After all the work I’ve put into this situation to keep the clubs from being mutilated further, I need your support. Trust that this will help us all survive.” Johnson holds out his hand. “Now, give Greg your fucking gun, Death.”

After a moment’s thought and against my better judgment, I hand it over. Gritting my teeth and attempting to calm my anger, I remind the smug motherfucker who is still breathing, “A gun won’t stop me from killing you, Murianos. I only need my hands.”

Stepping between us, after I’ve been disarmed, Johnson points to a chair behind me. “Take a seat.”

I don’t. Sitting leaves me vulnerable. Noticing I’m not about to, Johnson moves to stand on the right side of the devil, as it were. Addressing the room he turns to Busta, Cap and me. “Have the clubs made their decision?”

Busta’s seething glare states far more than his words could ever impart. He’s probably planning all the ways he can tear Murianos into a million pieces without Johnson’s intervention. I’m pretty sure Johnson understood that coming into this, but making sure he knows it, Busta speaks up, “Why again are we keeping him alive? Just send me back to the ring. I’ll get close to these Mano fuckers and I’ll get you the intel you want.”

“Not an option, Lucius. Boss says, I do. That’s the rules. They set up a premise and we need to keep it on track.” Johnson sounds defeated, like he’s already tried to find another means and the options were struck down.

Sitting on his lap, worrying her fingers, Cap toys with a bouncy curl of Pipers. “Set a new course,” Cap interjects.

“Look, it’s not that I think we need Murianos directly for this to succeed, but the boss does, and if I thought that you in the ring would get the job done, I would. I trust you more than him.”

Rising out of his chair, kicking it back sharply, Busta steps toward Johnson. “Then I’ll kill him if he doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Their boss and mine say that Murianos matters. I can’t change the outcome.” Looking at his watch, seeing the time ticking down just like we do, Johnson huffs, “I really hate this, I do, but if we don’t have that answer now the decision will be made for all of you. Think of how this will all affect your daughter, Lucius. She deserves so much more.”

“If you’re all dead, she’ll be fine and I’ll sleep like a baby in a lovely ten by ten, with three squares a day and a workout regime. I don’t see a downside.” His tone brokers no remorse, he’s set in his decision to go down with the ship.

Laughing darkly, crowing, and seemingly amused, Murianos slaps the arm of the chair with his good hand. “Bom! Bom. That fire of yours made me a lot of cash, Mayate.” Smiling, he leans back. “If you want to come with me and Jazmine, you’re more than welcome to fight. I won’t stop you.”

“Fuck it.” Tossing a few chairs to the side, narrowly missing Cap and Piper, leaping over Johnson and a small team of his agents, Joker, Miss, and the agents each do their best to hold Busta back by the arms. Wrapping themselves tightly around his torso to halt his attack, they’re having a hard time holding him. When he’s no more than an inch from Murianos’s face, with seething hatred, spitting in his face as he spews the words, “You know you’re not leaving this room alive.”

Murianos doesn’t flinch, sitting, wiping a small bit of spittle off his cheek with a peach pocket square. “I’ve never been a stupid man, Mayate. I know when the odds are in my favor and how to set the board to win when necessary. Correct, Agent Johnson?”

Johnson tucks himself between them. “Lucius, there’s more at stake than ever. You need him.”

Through gritted teeth, he barks, “We’ve never needed anything from him. I can simply snap his neck and we’ll be done with him. Let me do what’s necessary.”

With my attention solely on Murianos’s and Busta’s interaction, I barely noticed more agents and officers cockily entering this meeting. A tall motherfucker, nearly as big as Miss, steps up to Johnson, speaking low.

“Are you sure?” Talking to the asshole, Johnson seems surprised.

“Yeah,” his growly voice agrees.

“Fine.” Looking to Murianos, Johnson gives directives to the agent, “Take him to the office.”

Stepping up between Busta and Murianos, a dick sizing moment occurs. “Move. I need him,” he states, puffing out his chest, hoping to seem credible against a man like Busta.

Not moving an inch, holding his ground, this asshole somehow thinks he’s about to win with the likes of Busta. Bitch doesn’t realize he’s squaring off with a goddamn moose-bear-orca hybrid beast. Size doesn’t matter when you don’t have the power behind you. FBI boy is a damn ballerina in comparison.

“He needs to go upstairs. Now.”

“It better be to drown him in a vat of his own blood.” Squaring his shoulders, not allowing the agent to shift Murianos out of the way, Busta becomes an immovable force.

Unsettled with the dick swinging, Johnson counters, “Busta, this has to happen. He needs to go upstairs, out of sight for the next while. And I’m not asking, I’m telling.”

Reminding the room he is the big dick swinging; Johnson pushes past the two hulking jerks and steps to Murianos. “Get up, move to the office, and stay fucking quiet.”

Stepping past the two gorillas fighting, he retorts, “I’ll just watch the calamity on the TVs anyway.” Wandering to the stairs, Murianos is out of sight but not forgotten as he leaves with three agents in tow.

As he leaves, Johnson states, “Busta, Death, please have a seat. We have business to finish.” Checking his watch, noting the time, “What was your answer from the club membership?” As easily as asking for the check at a restaurant, Johnson has just asked us if we’re tipping. “There are sacrifices to be made in all wars. Know that this is the last sacrifice I’ll ask of you.”

Answering curtly, gripping the arm of the chair so tightly my nails bend back, I reply, “I doubt that. You’re asking me for the war chest and the war horse. You’ll come looking for the spoils of war once it’s done. We can’t give more, Johnson.”

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