Page 19 of Torched Spades
“Enjoy your victory,Johnny. You won’t be so lucky next time.”
I don’t appreciate his tone, so lifting the 9mm, I fire a bullet at his feet. My smile widens as he launches into an impromptu Riverdance, that hard exterior shattering like a motherfucker.
“You’re fucking crazy!” he shouts, hauling a still prone Mac across the cement floor. Just as they reach the warehouse entrance, Dice looks back one last time. “This isn’t over…” he warns darkly. “And if you think the fucking police will save you from bullets and blades, think again.” With that, he hauls Mac to his knees and disappears.
But I don’t move. I can’t. His threat scatters like a jigsaw puzzle in my head.
Bullets and blades.
Why the hell does that sound so familiar?
Before I can figure it out, the familiar squeak of rubber-soled shoes comes tearing across the cement floor. Quickly tucking Dice’s gun in the waistband of my work pants, I barely get my shirt lowered before Alice’s gray head pops around the long end of the pallets.
I’m fucked.
Fucked and fired.
Chapter Six
JOHNNY
There’sno way to hide any of this. Not only is Mac’s blood smeared everywhere like a goddamn crime scene, but there are also at least four unaccounted for bullets and a 9mm buried inside one of these pallets like a fucking prize at the bottom of a cereal box.
I may as well call George Reese myself and cut out the middleman.
“Look, Alice, I—” The rest of my confession lodges somewhere between my spleen and my liver as Alice charges me like a linebacker.
“You reckless, insubordinate, batshit-crazy man.” Wrapping her arms around me, she tightens them in a vise-like grip. “First thing tomorrow, I’m calling your probation officer and telling him what happened.”
Shit.If she calls Owen, I’m done.
Prying her off me, I step away while palming the back of my neck.Think, damn it, think…Then it hits me like a courtroom gavel.
She’s an accessory…
“Alice, youdorealize what happened here, right?” I gesture toward the floor, waiting for that same gavel to knock some sense into her.
Instead, she rolls her eyes. “Son, I’m old, not stupid. I see nothing on that floor but a job well done.” Tilting her head, she taps her index finger against her chin. “One that’ll need to be cleaned and thoroughly bleached, of course, but that doesn’t diminish what you did tonight.”
“Commit about twelve felonies?”
She purses her lips. “Do you know why most of the third shift crew works the main cargo berth?” I don’t answer because it’s not a question; it’s a segue. “It’s because they know the Rogue show up every week, and those pussies leave me to deal with them.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Every week? I’ve been here a month and haven’t seen those two before tonight.”
“Normally, they keep their bullshit confined to my office. Guess tonight was your lucky night.”
I think of the idiots hiding out, fisting their dicks over a few Bentleys, and my anger flares, then her words sink in. “Wait, did you say the Rogue?”
She grimaces. “The one and only.”
That’s impossible. The Rogue doesn’t exist, at least not anymore.
“I thought the Rogue was taken out decades ago?” At her raised eyebrow, I quickly add, “My father was heavily involved in trade unions. Keeping his eye on the inner workings of all East Coast crime families came with the job.”
At one time, the Rogue was a powerful alliance of four New England Irish mob families. Of course, when it comes to criminals, opportunity always outweighs oath, and the Rhode Island-based syndicate broke protocol and forged a Providence port deal with the Mexicans. Then all hell broke loose, and the Rogue imploded. When the dust settled, the emerald waters of Providence ran red, and the empire crumbled.
Or so I’d been told.
