Page 147 of Fearless

There was a muffled shuffling from the other end, like a hand was being cupped around the base of the phone. Greg’s voice was low and frantic. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“I dunno, Greg. What the fuck’s up with you?”

More rustling. A strained whisper. “Man, Fred isgone. Fucking gone. Adam saw two guys going over the fence, popped a shot off, and now nobody’s seen Fred since.”

Inwardly, Aidan was delighted to have broken enough barriers down that Greg was telling him all this. He urged his brothers closer and they moved in silently. Aidan could smell the Jack on Michael’s breath.

Outwardly, he affected bored and said, “That’s a great story and all, but what’s it got to do with me?”

Frustration. “It was you guys, wasn’t it?”

Aidan gave a vocal shrug. “I’ve been kicking Tango’s ass at darts all night. It sucks your guy defected, but that shit happens.”

“He didn’t defect. He wouldn’t do that.”

“But you would, obviously, or you wouldn’t be on the phone with me right now.”

A beat. Then: “Just tell me if it was the Dogs.”

“So you can what? Run to Larsen? Run up the flags? Let’s say you knew who it was, Greg; what would you do about it?”

Silence.

“I’m guessing that, no matter what happened tonight, Larsen’s gonna blame it on us anyway. So why do you need to know so bad?”

The line disconnected.

“You guys hear any of that?”

“I say lay out some cheese,” Ratchet said. “ ‘Cause that dude’s sprouting whiskers.”

“I’m impressed,” Mercy said, grinning. “Look at you, gettin’ shit done.”

“Keep it up,” Rottie said. “If he’s not happy with that crew, we can exploit that.”

Aidan smiled to himself as he pocketed his phone. It wasn’t much – skinny Greg with his acne scars and his unfavorable memories of high school – but it was a start. And that was better than anything he’d ever handed his dad before.

Mercy had had a front row seat for the screaming confessions of Fred the Carpathian. He still had the stink of blood and piss in his nose. He checked the time on his phone – four-eighteen – and walked away from the laptop Ratchet had set up on a bar table, ambling down the back hall to the dorm he was using. He needed a shower in the worst way, but he couldn’t get his bandage wet. The pain was starting to set in good, now, its hooks buried deep in his wounded muscle, a stiffness taking hold of him that was in bad need of a good soak and a gentle massage, neither of which he was going to get tonight.

He shrugged out of his sweatshirt, toed off his boots, and sank down in the hard wooden chair beside the door, closing the latch with a touch of his socked heel.

Exhausted, hurting, if he was honest, still reeling from that afternoon, he had his phone in his hand and was dialing before he was conscious of it.

Ava answered after the first ring. “Hi.”

Just one word, but her voice was soft, afraid, hopeful. It washervoice, not the sharp, brittle tone of the college grad who tried to push him away, but the voice of his Ava, who he’d broken to pieces five years ago.

“Hi,” he echoed.

She took a shaky breath. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, baby. You’re a good nurse.”

Another breath. He envisioned her wide dark eyes slick with tears, her head pressed in the soft white pillows of her bed, the moonlight drifting through the blinds she always left gapped.

“I didn’t wake you,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He heard the rustling of her covers, imagined her sitting up against the headboard. “When I shut my eyes, I keep seeing the blood.”

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