Page 52 of The Players

Her tears, desperation, and pain were hitting him in his soul in places he’d thought long dead. He was getting too involved.

All of this went through his head as he strolled inside Kristoff’s heavily guarded mansion. If their fearless leader invited them over, it usually meant a big sting operation was about to happen. He came right in time to see that half of the Bloody Ones were already there, gearing up in tactical wear.

Angel was bitching about how difficult it was to find a new sous chef for Flux.

“No one can make beef stroganoff like Alan,” he claimed.

“Aidan,” Sy corrected him. “If you’re gonna mourn the man, at least get his name right.”

“He’s not mourning the man,” Damon clarified as he checked his gun. “He’s saying goodbye to that perfect beef."

“Then who the hell was Alan?” Angel sounded disgruntled.

“The sous chef before him. You kicked him out for putting olive oil in your rice chicken instead of using butter.”

Recognition dawned on Angel's face as he strapped on his kevlar vest. “Ah, well, maybe we can get Alan back. I’m sure he’s learned his lesson by now.”

“Can’t do,” Damon explained. “Alan got killed during the raid of a back-alley restaurant he started working at. Word on the street is that in his last breath, he cursed your name.”

A frown marred Angel’s face. “It was nice of him to think of me before dying. But, seriously, after we sort this mess, we need to get a new chef. One with knife skills that can do more than chop onions. You know, so he can keep himself alive. We don’t want people thinking that Flux has a high mortality rate.” He eyed Sy. “Didn’t I hear you say the other day that Carmen is a mean cook?”

Sy shook his head. “Never gonna happen.” Like he would ever let her near any of his friends. Yeah, they were blood brothers, but he also knew their reputations for being man whores. If any of them even looked at her the wrong way, he wouldn’t be held responsible for his actions.

Shit, that sounded a bit possessive and he didn’t do possessive. Because that would mean that she was more than a casual fuck. And he knew what a woman could do to a man when she got him by the balls.

He chin jerked at his brother, who wore his usual scowl. There was a somewhat deranged look on Viking’s face, and Sy didn’t want to think about what—or who—had put it there. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the second things got dicey during the shooting, his brother had whisked Elena away instead of leaving her behind to fend for herself.

Of course, Sy himself had done the same for Carmen, but that was different. He had a pact with Vince. More than that, he had a deal with Carmen. They would enjoy each other for the time being and then part their ways. It always ended that way. No muss, no fuss.

Shit. He didn’t want to think about that right now. She was too innocent to be treated like a regular club pass around. And defenseless like a kitten. A kitten he sure liked to make purr. Hell. Now was not the time to think about her hot body. It was time for retaliation.

He grabbed his gun from his belt and checked it. The assault on the club had been a week ago. Some might wait to regroup, but the Bloody Ones didn’t work that way. They were always ready to wipe out some cockroaches.

Kristoff was mapping out their line of destruction.

“What about Keegan’s MC connection?” Damon asked. It was his job to know every player in town and who had their backs.

“They’re just mules for his small-time drug runs,” Viking said. “For the peanuts he’s paying, they don’t ride with him.”

First on their list was Keegan. Sy strapped on knives to his lower back and onto his ankle, then hauled his duffel bag over his shoulder.

It wasn’t too hard tracking down Keegan’s place of business. Having built an extensive net of informants, from street hustlers to hobos and chambermaids, they could basically find anyone anywhere.

Sy took a position on top of the building across the compound. Keegan had his place secured by three gunned men only. Obviously, he’d put most of them inside, or—more likely—he’d taken the remainder of his forces to protect his own hide since Morelli would be coming for him. Three men holding a sig was hardly a challenge. It was like shooting ducks in a row.

By the time he’d packed up his rifle and joined the others, they were already inside the building. He came in just in time to see the twins take down the last one of Keegan’s men standing. Whatever was left of Keegan’s security, protecting his shipment, was dead or bleeding, spread out over the floor. Kristoff and Viking were talking to the last three that were still breathing. Though talking was a bit of an overstatement. As per usual, Viking first pounded his fist in their faces, readying them up for interrogation. His brother was a firm believer in “hit first, ask questions later.” He admired that about him.

Sy put his bag on a dingy chair and went over to the containers. The old warehouse had a dozen of them stacked next to each other.

One by one, he opened the doors. Most of them were filled with crates and boxes. The twins checked them, calling out whatever weapons they found. When he reached the last container, he heard a sound. Something was off.

“Damon.”

The twins pulled out their guns and aimed it at the container as Sy slowly opened it.

The inside of the container was filled with shadows. No one came bursting out of it though. He then heard a whimper.

“Whoever the fuck you are, get out.” That’s when Sy noticed a piece of white cloth sticking out. What the hell was going on here? “Get out, or we’re gonna shoot,” he warned.

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