Page 25 of Choices

Knuckles rapping against the door draws our attention.

“Dad, why is my car gone?” My lips tug up at Kitty’s angry tone.

Pres nods to the door, blowing out an exasperated breath and rubbing a hand across his forehead.

Swinging it open, Kitty’s eyes squint into slits. She pushes past me then straightens her small frame. “My car’s gone.”

“Why the fuck are you looking for it?” Callan scolds. “Going somewhere?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I a captive?”

“You’re grounded,” Callan corrects her.

“Are you really that deluded? I’m an adult, Callan.” She fumes, steam pouring from her ears.

“Nope, you’re a brat who fucked up. Now, you’re in time out.”

“Dad?” She throws her arms out toward her brother, mouth parted, eyes wide.

“Don’t fucking start squabbling. You’re both too fucking old and I’m too fucking tired for it.” It’s quite the show to watch. No matter how big and bad Pres and Callan are, they’re still just ordinary father and brother when it comes to Kitty.

“Your car is gone. You’ll have a new one by the end of the week—and no, you’re not grounded or a captive, but I’m asking you stay at the compound for a few days.”

“Is this because of the cops last night? No one seems to know anything about it and Callan won’t tell me anything.” She all but stomps her foot.

“Because you don’t need to know,” Callan points out.

“Fine. Whatever. Please let me know when I can get the hell out of here.” She shoots her brother a one-finger salute then turns, almost walking into me. “And don’t send him to do it for you.” She tilts her head, offering me a forced smile. “I hate you all.” This time, I allow myself the pleasure of watching her dainty figure storm out of the room, her fire scorching me and my fucked-up compulsion aching to follow.

“She has no fucking clue the damage she’s caused or the mounting body count,” Callan grates out, his nostrils flaring.

“And we’ll keep it that way. It’s your job to protect her so go do it.”

My fingers flit over my laptop, bringing up the website for the ink shop. Ink & Metal. It’s basic. It just has pictures of designs they’ve tattooed, their hours, and social media links.

“They’re closed today,” I inform Callan. He stares out the SUV window at the shitty two-story apartment complex where the Tim lives.

“I told him we were coming. He should have been outside waiting for us.” He’s irritated—and not because Tim is keepingus waiting. It’s about the job we have to do. Killing innocent people isn’t our m.o.—especially women.

“Do you think we’re being too rash with this woman?” I ask.

Shifting in the seat, Callan rolls his neck, his eyes darting to my screen. “I get my old man’s caution. The Carnells can have the police ping the cell towers to track Nicolas’s locations. There’s a tower sixty yards from the shop. And this woman knows who Kitty is. And that she left with Nicolas.”

A heaviness settles over us. I don’t say anything else because I don’t need to. If this woman can cast attention toward Kit, even by accident, then she needs to go.

Callan dials Tim’s number. The ringing vibrates through the car’s speakers with no answer. Clicking the link, I bring up the woman’s social media page and flick through the recent posts, noting the guy who works with her is her boyfriend.

“Where is this motherfucker?” Callan growls, ending the call. Popping the door open, he jumps out, his heavy boots crunching across the gravel at his feet. Closing the laptop, I join him, the need for caution rippling up my spine. My eyes dart to every flurry of movement, ears pricking, listening for anything out of order. Checking his phone, Callan jerks his head toward a yellow stained door and shows me the phone with the address typed out on it: three.

Resting my hand on the pistol strapped at my lower back, I stand against the wall beside the door, Callan mirroring me on the other side. Tapping my fingers against the door, I call out, “Yo, Tim, you in there?”

A whining comes from inside. “He’s dead,” a woman’s voice calls out.

Callan’s eyes cut to mine before he rears back and boots the door open, shards of wood splintering as it smashes off a wall. A dash of dark hair runs into a room to the right, her screech loud and piercing.

Gun aimed, I enter first, taking two steps before I turn right, hovering near the doorframe to a bedroom. “I didn’t mean to stab him.” Tears streak down her face. Long dark hair falls to her waist over a gray nightshirt that was once probably white. The room is chaotic. Garbage is everywhere. A mattress lay on the floor covered with a ripped duvet and stained sheet.

“He do that?” I ask, gesturing toward her face with my chin.

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