Page 9 of If You Go
It kept growing. The legit jobs paid the bills; the other work padded the accounts in ways banks liked to call “discrepancies.” We learned how to make the books sing. Corver learned how to make a ghost company look like an LLC that paid taxes. We learned how to move money through Slater’s invoices and real estate flips. Now? We’re quiet billionaires in suits nobody ever sees except when they need a floor plan or a favor. The cars, the building, the whiskey—yeah, they’re signs, but we hide them behind a contractor’s license and a smile.
“And we still show up in a truck,” Corver says, slapping the tailgate shut. “Because men use hands before they use phones.”
It’s the truth. Hands still solve most problems. Fingers on triggers, on phones, on tools—different jobs, same muscle memory.
On the drive over, I’d filled Corver in. His laptop’s already open on his knees, fingers flying. Tech’s his kingdom—cameras, systems, digital paper trails that fool governments. If someone left a trace, he’ll find it.
“You thinking Mikey’s old crew?” he asks.
“No. Too long has passed. This feels… targeted. Check for leaks. If anyone traced her back to us, I want to know.”
“I’ll have answers by the time we’re there.”
“Has this been on the police radar?” I ask. I don’t want to have to explain it too much to anyone on the outside. Especially since we don’t know exactly who is behind this.
“No, the cops on the payroll made sure to bury it just like they do with anything connected to us. Faulty something or other inside. They took it off the scanner already, I got alerted right before Joshua pounded on my door.
We drive in silence the rest of the way, the truck’s engine growling. My gut gets tighter the closer we get.
When we roll up, the Lotus is there, spotless thankfully for him. He would be dead if had fucked it up. Josh is leaning against it, Juniper crushed against his chest. He’s got an arm around her waist, rubbing her back while she sobs. Seeing her broken makes my chest ache.
Looking around, the ground is covered in debris. Beams, glass, chairs, random ink bottles, and a few animal skulls that I know were hanging inside the shop. I know, because I hung them up. And they are now twenty feet away from the front door. Or, at least, where the front door used to be.
We’ll do what we do. Slater builds. Slater protects. Slater collects. No one ever called us saints, and that’s the point.
I am halfway out of the truck when the sound of engines pulling up becomes louder, getting closer to where we are parked. BMWs. Three, no—four of them. They slide in smooth, boxing us in like wolves.
The doors open, and seven men step out in near-perfect sync. Suits pressed, faces marked by old violence. Eyes flat and practiced. Six-two, six-three–still shorter than my six-six stature. But height doesn’t mean a thing against men who’ve already killed. And judging by their stance, their calculated movements, they have definitely killed before.
I slip my Glock out slow, keep it low. Corver does the same.
One steps forward, no weapon in his hands. His voice confirms what my gut already guessed.
“Good mornin’, lads. We’re here t’ look inta de wee… accident dat’s befallen dis fine establishment.”
Irish. Thick as whiskey.
I square my shoulders. “What exactly can we help you boys with?” My voice stays calm, but I’m ready.
Juniper storms toward them, right past Corver and I, Josh following closely after her, all five feet of fury, wiping her tears and fixing a feral expression on her face. She’s got a dagger at her ankle. Won’t use it unless she has to, but she’s not afraid to. We made sure she knew how to use it well.
“I didn’t call anyone,” she snaps. “So who the hell are you?”
The Irishman inclines his head, amused. “We know, lass. We’re here on orders from Stefan O’Brien. Surry’s da’.”
The world freezes. Stefan O’Brien. Irish Mafia.
Juniper blinks, stunned. “What does—”
“Dat’s not fer me t’ say,” he cuts her off with a half-smile. “We’d like t’ take a look ‘round. Collect evidence. Help wit’ de rebuild.”
Juniper crosses her arms, glare sharp enough to cut steel. “First of all, stop calling me ‘lass’ or ‘ma’am.’ My name’s Juniper Hall. And I’m not fifty.”
His smirk deepens. “Fair enough, Juniper. May we step inside?”
She sweeps an arm toward the shop. “Be my guest. Not like there’s anything left to break.”
They move toward the shattered doors. Juniper follows right behind, heels clicking, close enough that, yup, I think she did actually just step on his heels. He twitches, but says nothing.
