Page 74 of The Order of Disorder
“Oh, you didn’t do anything? You go see the senator and he ends up ODing with his fucking pants down? Is that a fucking coincidence, Maxwell?”
He releases me with a shove, pacing now in short agitated loops.
“He had our goddamn laundry money in his room. He had our drugs. If he talks, if he cuts a deal, they don’t just come for me, they come for all of us. You get that?”
He spins back, eyes bloodshot.
“I get arrested, the feds swarm the clubhouse. They start pulling apart our routes, our contacts, our fucking history. Every dime we ever laundered. Every deal.”
He steps in again, too close.
“You want to see how fast these men turn on you when survival’s on the line? You think Silas won’t offer you up first, slit you wide and tell them you were the whole fucking op?”
He’s breathing heavy now. Shaking.
“I ought to gut you right here.”
Beside him, Silas stares at me, a glint of pleasure in his eyes.
Billy slams his palm down on the table. “Lock her up. Put her on fucking ice before I kill her where she stands.”
He draws a breath and stands straighter.
“I need time to manage this. Call the lawyer, clean up the shell paperwork. Make sure our bank man doesn’t fucking vanish.”
He’s already turning, phone to his ear, voice rising again—names, threats, orders. He slams the office door shut behind him.
Silas steps in instantly and grabs my arm hard.
The second he touches me, I yank sideways, trying to break his hold, but he clamps down, pulls tighter. I twist again, shove against his chest, drive my elbow into his ribs.
“Get the fuck off me.”
He catches the back of my shirt and yanks me off balance. My feet drag, shoes skidding across the concrete as I fight to plant them.
I dig my nails into his wrist, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look down. Just exhales, slow and sharp through his nose.
“You should’ve stayed broken,” he hisses. “Would’ve kept us all safer.”
Then he hauls me across the hangar—body braced, arms locked around me like a clamp. My heels catch, my shoulder slams into a doorframe, but he never stops moving.
No one steps in, but everybody watches.
Outside, the sun’s still out but the wind’s picked up. Late September whiplash. Heat in the light, bite in the air.
Silas marches me past the fuel shed toward the far corner of the yard. There, tucked between two steel storage tanks, sits a ten-foot chain-link enclosure with a gravel floor and padlocked gate. It’s usually packed with fuel drums and hazmat signage. But right now, it’s empty.
“I’ve been meaning to clean this out,” Silas says, fishing a key from his pocket. “Makes a decent kennel.”
He unlocks the padlock and the gate groans open.
I try to dig my heels in again. He spins me, grabs both arms, and shoves. I stumble, hitting the ground hard, hands scraping against the gravel as I catch myself. Sharp stones bite into my palms. I hiss through my teeth and push up to my knees.
He slams the gate behind me and clicks the padlock shut.
And then he stays there, fingers curling loosely through the mesh.
“You know what I like about this?” he says pleasantly, the creepy smile tugging the corners of his lips. “I can watch you nice and up close. No grainy camera feeds. Since Ryan moved the bed in your room, I haven’t been able to see anything of interest. But now…”
