Page 6 of Up in Flames

He harrumphs and moves to the passenger side. We both slide in, and I start the short drive to the warehouse on the docks of the Mississippi. With my thumb, I twist the gold ‘B’ ring on my pointer finger and breathe a little heavier.

“Will Boss be there tonight?” Rodberg asks.

I glance over at him and then back to the road, the rain lighter than before as it hits the windshield. “I think so. But you know he doesn’t do much these days. He leaves most of the grunt work to the soldiers.”

Rodberg nods, sinks into his seat, and sighs. “Cain, do you think if I tried to move up the ranks that Boss might—”

“We’re here,” I interrupt, needing to stop that line of talk and pulling into the gates of the warehouse.

Rodberg moving up the ranks is a bad move. I won’t have anything to do with that, not only because I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I like the guy. Moving up would mean anything could happen to him, which would be out of my control.

And I need control—in all things.

That’s why I’m so good at what I do—everything is controlled to the nth degree.

The thunderous roar of the V8 dulls when I turn off the ignition.

Christophe and Killian nod from the door of the warehouse. They’re both standing under the awning out of the weather but wearing their usual bomber jackets and black slacks, showing they’re part of the warehouse staff. Their shoes shine so much that the droplets of rain that hit them slide off with ease from all the polish.

“Man, Killian looks like he has extra kill to his name today,” Rodberg quips with a chuckle.

I glance over at Killian, who’s scowling with his arms crossed over his chest as he frowns at the damn world. But then again, standing at a door in the freezing weather doing nothing for hours on end would probably make me want to stab an asshole too.

“I would suggestnotsaying that to him. C’mon, let’s go.” I step out, and the rain and bitterness of the autumn night hit me. Gritting my teeth, I close my car door with a quiet click and walk hurriedly over to Christophe. He opens the entrance without hesitation, nodding in greeting. Killian, however, simply glances at me but does nothing in acknowledgment.

The fucker’s in a bad mood.

We walk in through the tattered, rusty, old wrought iron door, which, to the outside world, looks more like a shipbuilding yard. But as I step inside, I take in the sights of my home away from home. There’s a large expanse that looks like an abandoned building. It has shipping containers and sections of plastic sheeting scattered everywhere, giving it an abandoned feel.

It’s all a front.

We continue walking, and I kick an empty soup can out of my way—the cans are there to help with the illusion of homeless people camping here. We make it to the back wall where Harry stands, wearing the same bomber jacket and slacks. He’s a much bigger build than the two outside, standing over six foot six, built like the Hulk, with his jacket barely covering his bulging muscles. I have to admit, even I wouldn’t like to go one-on-one with that bastard, and I know how to handle myself. He’s standing next to the shelves that hold cans of paint, which look like they’re supposed to be there, but I know better. I nod to Harry while Rodberg and I hold up our left hands, showing our ‘B’ rings even though he knows us.

It’s protocol.

It’s necessary.

It’s a prerequisite.

He turns and slides the shelving system to the side, revealing the doorway, and we both step forward into the deep, red-painted hallway. The heavy scratching sound of the shelves moving behind us is clear as we go down the long hall. I roll my shoulders, trying to rid myself of the uneasiness this place always brings out in me. The red does nothing to ease the tension. At the end of the hall, we turn left, and it opens into the main parlor. This space is like something you’d see in a movie—big Chesterfield sofas, men smoking cigars, roulette tables, a giant mahogany bar with a bartender serving drinks. And women—so many topless women.

“Cain! Happy Thanksgiving. Wasn’t sure if we’d be seeing you today,” Morgan chimes, rushing up to greet me. His darker complexion is accentuated in the dim lighting of the room. The black ink on his tattoos is clearly visible on his hands and fingers before he wraps his arms around me in a back-slapping man hug. I grin and do the same. His thick dreadlocks are tied back today in a semblance of a man bun.

“Morgan,” I reply. “You know me, always on the job. Someone’s got to do the work if Boss won’t. You know how it is.”

He smiles wide and tilts his head. “Don’t let Boss hear you say that. He’ll gut you for even thinking it.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” I slap his shoulder. “Where’s Trap?”

Morgan looks around the room, and his eyes stop at the end of the bar. “Drinking,as usual.”

Rodberg lets out a bemused laugh, and my muscles tighten at the thought. “Right… and Morgan?” He raises his brow. “Tell Boss what I said, I’ll slice the tendons in your ankles, then make you try to run while I send a pack of rabid dogs after you.”

He grins wide. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Cain.” He pats my shoulder and walks off to the roulette table. Morgan is one of the good guys. The man has my back, and I respect him as he respects me. And because of that mutual respect, I know he won’t tell Boss what I said.

Trap, on the other hand, I wouldn’t say shit to him about any-fucking-thing. I know whatever was said would go straight back to Boss. Trap’s rank is below me—third in charge. He has some grand illusion of surpassing me, and because of that, he is an ass-kisser.

You have to know who to trust in this life. We may be a brotherhood, but not all brothers love each other as a family should.

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