Page 15 of Kings & Chaos

The streets were mostly empty, the Blades and Barbarians, the motorcycle clubs that ruled Southside, probably sleeping off the night before. Same for the Phantoms and the Hounds, the rival gangs that kept Blackwell Falls teetering on the knife’s edge of a war.

I got out of the car and adjusted my jacket to hide my gun. It was a given that I had it, but I wasn’t looking to draw attention to myself.

The fresh air cleared away the vestiges of doom that had felt like a sword over my head in the car. I was glad to be rid of it — for now — but I could have done without the shame that took its place.

You fucking pussy. You going to let this control you forever? You going to let him beat you? Control you? Own you?

The words helped, even though they were only in my mind. I stood straighter, felt stronger.

What was it therapists called it?Negative self-talk?

Yeah, well, fuck them and fuck their psychobabble. I’d take negative self-talk any day if it kept me strong.

If it kept me in control.

I headed around the building to the old loading dock and almost ran into a leather-wearing brick wall.

“Fuck,” I said, taking a step a back when I realized it was Hawk, the VP of the Blackwell Blades.

“Took the word right outta my mouth,” Hawk said. He was as tall as I was with the kind of meaty muscle that would wreak havoc on my hands in a fight and insulate his vital organs from my blows.

I’d never met Hawk at the Orpheum, and I didn’t want to.

“How’s it going?” I asked, because the patch on Hawk’s Blackwell Blades cut demanded a certain amount of respect.

“It’s going,” he rumbled, stroking his dark beard. “What are you doing over here this time of day?”

It wasn’t an unexpected question. My business in town was usually conducted by others during daylight. “Same thing you’re probably doing.”

He gave a nod. “Good luck.”

“Don’t need it,” I said.

He chuckled. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a cocky asshole?”

“Every day of my life.”

“So you’re not flying blind then.” Another man might have met my fist — or worse — for the insult, but Hawk's words were good-natured. “See ya around.”

“Yep.”

We crossed paths and I headed for the concrete ramp leading to the loading dock.

Fifty years ago, the place would have been teeming with trucks picking up floral wire to take it wherever-the-fuck people used floral wire and dropping off supplies to make it. Now, it was silent as a graveyard, the asphalt cracked and pitted, the metal roll-up doors rusted.

Rusted chain-link surrounded the perimeter, giving a clear view of the rest of Southside, which was just as derelict as the wire factory. To anyone who didn’t know better, this part of town was dead, waiting for the next round of rich fucks from the city to turn the old factory buildings into overpriced lofts they could fill with Italian sofas and ten-thousand-dollar espresso machines.

But I knew better. Southside was brimming with industry — and money — that wasn’t visible to the untrained eye.

I stopped at a metal door, an electronic keypad set into the old brick, then looked up at the security camera. A second later, a beep sounded from inside.

I opened the door and stepped into a cavernous concrete warehouse.

Like most of the buildings in Southside, it had been empty for a long time. I was hoping to change that, but not by making it more attractive to out-of-towners.

My footsteps echoed off the concrete as I made my way to the back of the warehouse. It was quiet, and if I hadn’t known better, I would have thought it was empty.

Luckily for me, I knew better.

---