Page 100 of Wicked Spite
“Risk management,” I mock, rolling my eyes. “Sounds like you’re writing a business plan.”
“Call it what you will,” Jeremiah says, unfazed. “But emotions are high, and high emotions lead to mistakes. We need to keep a clear head.”
“Emotions, emotions, emotions. Your emotions are what led us here, so I really don’t need a lecture on keeping a clear head from you. I’ll handle this my way and clean up the mess as per usual. I didn’t hear you complaining when I cleaned up your fuck up, now did I?”
“You’re right,” he concedes, “but I know that we don’t need another fuck up like mine. We’re running out of single people at this table. You go in there and kill him then what? How the fuck do you deal with Dad about that?”
“Strategize all you want,” Reagan snaps, “but I’m not backing down. Not this time.”
“That’s the spirit,” I say, grinning. “Let’s give him a one-way ticket to hell. And again, I will deal with Robert. Just fucking have my back, or are you more concerned about Daddy Dearest?”
Jeremiah grimaces, but nods. He’s always been the one to balance out my recklessness with his caution, and while it can be annoying, I know it’s useful.
“I’m with you. We’re all with you, Penn. I wouldn’t choose him over you, ever.”
“Then I’m gonna get ready,” I announce, looking around the room at the faces of those who stand by us. “I’ve got a board meeting to attend and a hostile takeover to conduct.”
Because that’s what this is. It’s business, and in business it pays to be the most cutthroat at the table.
We pull up to the abandoned airport hangar, the engine quietly ending as I turn the truck off. I glance over at Ramsey, sitting in the backseat dressed like young Rambo complete with eye black. Okay, Mr. Call of Duty.
“Stay put for five minutes,” I say, my voice low but sharp. “Come in behind us. And hand me my duffle bag from behind your seat.”
Ramsey smirks as he grabs the bag. “Oh, it’s always a good time when the Blackwood murder spend-the-night bag comes out.” I laugh at that because it is my little bag of fucking party tricks it feelslike.
“Yeah, yeah, just don’t fuck up the timing,” I reply, snatching the bag from him. The weight feels familiar, almost comforting. It’s packed with everything we need for tonight’s little show.
“Penn, this is insane,” Reagan mutters beside me, her voice laced with discomfort. She’s pulling at the baby pink sweater and gray leggings I’ve forced her into, a far cry from her usual attire. The white sneakers complete the look—a perfect façade of innocence.
“Quit squirming. You look like your sister and the perfect little bait,” I snap, reaching into the bag and pulling out a black hood. “Put this on.”
She hesitates for a second, her eyes flashing with defiance before she complies, slipping the hood over her head. Even now, she hates that I make sense. She’s so fueled by her emotions that she can’t see how calculated this is. I have more finesse than just storming the castle like it’s goddamn Normandy.
I get out of the front cab, the cold night air biting at my skin. Tucking my gun into the waistband of my jeans as the door shields me, I walk around to the passenger side. “Play dead wifey. It’ll be just like the night we got married.” She rolls her eyes before forcing her body to go limp as I open the door and throw her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She plays unconscious well, thank fuck.
“Let’s make this quick,” she mutters as I feel her warm breath against my neck through the fabric of her hood.
“Ready to see John, hellfire?” I whisper, my voice dripping with sarcasm. No response, just the steady rise and fall of her breathing. Fine by me.
We reach the hangar door, and I pause, taking a deep breath.
It’s showtime.
I kick the hangar door open with a satisfyingbang. The metallic clang echoes in the cavernous space, announcing our arrival. John St. Pierre whips his head around, his face twisting into a smirk as he sees me swagger in with Reagan slung over my shoulder. His two meathead bodyguards stand at attention, flexing their muscles and looking as dumb as they are big.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Penn Blackwood,” John drawls, his voice dripping with arrogance. “You really did show. I figured you’d go running to your daddy to try and fix this.”
“Yeah, yeah, save the dramatic monologue for someone who gives a shit,” I shoot back, letting my eyes roam dismissively over the setup. “Here’s your precious little daughter, as promised.” I shift Reagan slightly, making sure her limp form is still convincingly unconscious. “Now, are you gonna be a good boy and sit down to talk with me, John? Because you’ve been running that mouth of yours about my wife, and I think we need to clear the air on that.”
“Give me Reese,” John commands, not even bothering to hide his impatience. His cockiness oozes out of him, thinking he’s got the upper hand.
“Reese, Reese...” I murmur, pretending to ponder. “Oh, right, you mean this one?” I give Reagan a little jiggle. “You know, I was really hoping for more of a warm welcome, but I guess manners aren’t your strong suit.”
John’s face contorts, frustration seeping through his smug facade. Perfect. Every second counts. My eyes flit to the side, catching Ramsey slipping in through the shadows, just as we planned.
“Alright, alright,” I say, feigning compliance. “Let’s not keep Daddy waiting.” I lower Reagan gently to the ground,locking eyes with my cousin. The silent signal passes between us—it’s go time.
“Here you go, Johnny,” I say, my voice laced with mock sweetness. It’s the last thing his goons hear before Ramsey and I simultaneously pull our guns and fire.
