Page 112 of The Wild Charge

“Everyone’s mixed up with something.”

“Fuck off with your philosophical shit.”

Hunter shrugged. “You ended up with the Lean Dogs, despite having more valuable skills. We join tribes. For security, money, power. That’s human nature. My boys and I have skills, and Abacus has wealth and power. It’s not complicated, really.”

But Fox didn’t buy that, not fully. There was nothing simple about what Hunter was doing to boys, to young men – who knew how many. That wasn’t rational by any means. Nor was the way he spoke about Reese: mocking and derisive. This was personal, somehow.

Fox had never liked missing vital information.

“Alright, then. You’ve threatened me. I’m properly warned off mucking about with Abacus. Is that it? Business concluded?”

“For now. Yes.”

The past few minutes, the droning of a boat motor had grown louder and louder, the pleasing purr of a small yacht. It cruised around the bend at a good clip, its deck and hull lit up as if for a party. Three lengths out from the bridge, Fox started a mental countdown.

“For now,” Fox echoed. “Right. But I want you to take note of something, Mr. Hunter.”

“Captain,” he corrected.

“Mr. Hunter,” Fox repeated. “The next time we meet, I’m going to kill you.”

“Hm. May the best man win.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

The yacht reached the underpass of the bridge, and a sun-bright spotlight clicked on, painting the beach a blinding, daytime white.

Fox heard Hunter mutter a curse, but he’d been ready for it, eyes already closed. He ducked to the right, sprinted across the roof, gravel biting at the soles of his feet, and jumped. The oak tree there caught him in its crooked branches. He kept tight hold of his gun with one hand, clutched at bark with his other, and swung down to the grass. He took off again, down the weedy bank, across the sand, and into the water, where Walsh already had the boat turned around and running.

The boy who’d been lying in wait for him there was lit up by the spotlight, bent at the waist, hands pressed to his eyes, momentarily blinded, just as Hunter had been.

Fox ran straight into the water. When he was waist-deep, he draped his arms over the side of the boat, and Walsh gunned the motor. It was one of Mercy’s few insistences, that all their watercraft have good, strong, name-brand engines. It was a little boat, and a great big Mercury engine, and it took off like a shot across the water, carrying them away from the beach, the blinded boy standing on it, and the yacht – helpfully piloted by Mercy.

Fox managed to haul himself up into the boat, soaking wet and spitting water. “I think that went well,” he shouted over the screaming of the engine.

They passed a parking lot full of street lights, and it was bright enough to see Walsh roll his eyes.

Thirty

“I’ve always said that nothing beats a little bateau, one that sits real light in the water, but I’m beginning to see the appeal.” Mercy patted the sleek, cherrywood bar top on the yacht’s main party deck. “I don’t think I could call myself a proper Frenchman if I didn’t like a little opulence, now and then.”

“You’re only a quarter French,” Walsh reminded, sipping a glass of chilled vodka, fresh from the minifridge.

“It’s like I always tell Ava–”

“A quarter’s all you need.”

“You’re grumpy as shit when you almost get killed, you know that?”

Fox abandoned his own drink, a whiskey Mercy had poured for him with a bartender’s flair the moment he mounted the stairs from below, in favor of going to lean on the rail and watch for the boys. The yacht – the club’s, a recent purchase – was parked at the end of a long dock at a slow-moving bend in the river, flanked on both sides by tied-up boats of all shapes and sized. They bobbed and bumped against the tires placed for just such a purpose, water lapping quietly at their hulls. Dull, bluish lights on poles offered a view straight up to the marina, dark and quiet this time of night. A few people moved about, though; someone with an unfortunate bucket hat was loading coolers and fishing equipment for an upcoming outing. Someone a few spaces down appeared to be living in their boat – Fox could see the flicker and glow of a TV through the windows.

Behind him, Mercy was laughing over Walsh’s getaway back on the beach. Fox didn’t attempt to pay attention. He kept replaying Hunter’s words in the back of his mind.We join tribes. For security, money, power. That’s human nature. It was. But he was still certain that there was more to it for Hunter. Obviously, Abacus made use of low-level thugs and lackies; that made sense. People outside their social and political circles would never be associated with them. Even if someone tried to toss the blame on the likes of Jack Waverly, the law would believe the rich and respected movie producer over the junkie, cartel boss, or paramilitary nutjob out on the street.

But of all the tribes to join, why would Hunter choose Abacus? Why not some other sort of criminal organization? An MC. A mafia family. A powerful drug dealer like Ian.

Speaking of Ian…That princess Shaman, he’d called him. A crack at his sexuality? Or, more likely, moreworrying, a hint that Hunter knew all about Ian’s past. Which meant he knew aboutalltheir pasts.

He’d known his Christian name was Charlie, after all.

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