Page 44 of Rogue's Path
They nod and walk off to join the others.
“How long before they get themselves killed?” Havoc asks.
“Vandal a week. The other two will make it a month, maybe.” That kid has more money than brains.
Havoc shakes his head. “Do you think we could ship them out to the Deathadders for a week or two and they’d send us back trained killers?”
“Probably not.” But it’s a nice dream.
“If only Bishop’s kid wasn’t deployed.”
I chuckle. “There’s no way anyone mistakes Deacon for a party kid. He was born a mini Bishop, and they’d have let him in the special forces based solely on his father’s name even if he wasn’t already top of his graduating class. Unlike Vandal, who looks and acts the part perfectly.” Too perfectly. “They know what they’re getting into. All of them have killed drug dealers.They’ve seen kids left lying on the side of the road after drug deals went wrong.” I don’t know who I’m trying to convince, him or me, but it does nothing to settle the worry.
After a long moment, Havoc snaps out of it, saying, “Make sure all the bills are paid at the funeral home.”
“I’ll take care of it today.”
“Schedule someone to cover all Berzerker’s work for the next six months. If he wants to come in, he can, but he doesn’t need to. And make sure our accounts are set up to pay the family’s bills. We don’t want them to have to worry about anything but grieving.”
This is all standard for when someone in The Children of Chaos dies, but Havoc probably needs a distraction. His kid was friends with Berzerker’s kid.
That’s going to be a hard conversation.
We Delivered
Dylan
Why did I expect to have a relaxed week after the pre-bachelorette party? But here I am heading straight from the Ivy Café to Dahlia’s house for dinner.
My taxi driver stops at the gate.
It’s odd that in one of the biggest cities in the world, there’s this little gated community that Dahlia found to live in.
Somehow, when I picture Maverick, I see him in a penthouse high in the sky. That big, angry man looks all wrong in Dahlia’s sweet little mansion.
Little mansion.
Like all the other times, a bulky Italian man in a suit steps out of the guard shack. There’s a distinct bulge of a gun on his side. I could probably guess what type it is, but it’s not like he’d show it to me to confirm.
With the thick brick walls all around, this setup would work for a dystopian book. After the world fell apart and everyone in Urbium was dead, the survivors flocked here to the one little oasis of safety. Or maybe they’re trapped in here by men with guns, forever wanting to escape into the woods to live off the land—What a joke. In an apocalypse, living alone in the woods is just a hardworking path to death. People don’t think about all the little things they need to survive. One person can’t do it all. You can’t forge your own weapons—Stop planning a dystopian novel. You write mysteries.
Except these streets are too perfect.
Too happy.
Too safe for a big city.
It just begs to be blown apart.
“Ma’am, are you getting out?” the cab driver asks, pulling me out of my head.
“Oh, yes. Sorry.” I pass over the cab fare and tip, then hop out.
“Dylan!” Dahlia rushes down the steps. Her husband looms at the doorway, glaring at me.
Anger is so his natural state.
“I’m so glad you decided to stay a few more days.”
