Brawn: Lethal Darkness MC (9 page)

Micah

Four Months Later

“Micah, my good friend,” said the man in a thick Russian accent. He spread his arms out wide to pull me into a hug. “Welcome, welcome,” he said, patting me on the back. “It is good to see you. It has been very long.”

“Good to see you, too, Sergei,” I said.

“Come, sit, please.” He pointed at the chair across from his desk as he returned behind it and settled in, crossing his hands over his fat belly. Snapping his fingers at the pale young teen standing at attention on the far wall, he barked, “Alexei, go get a drink for my old friend, Micah. Vodka.”

“Little early for vodka, isn’t it?”

“Never too early for vodka.”

“You’re a Russian through and through,” I remarked.

“Ah, what can I do? It is in my blood.” He leaned forward in his seat and eyed me up and down. “You don’t look so well,” he said bluntly.

“Yeah, well, you look like shit, too, you fat old man,” I retorted sarcastically.

Sergei chuckled. The chains looped across his chest bounced as he did, dazzling in the light from overhead. We were sitting in his office in an underground bunker on the far side of town. It looked like an out of business deli from the street level, but anyone who knew anything about the shadier businesses that ran through this city knew that more money and power was concentrated in the Bratva’s headquarters than just about anywhere else that wasn’t the Lethal Darkness clubhouse or that rotting dump the Knives of Fury called home.

He patted his stomach and shrugged. “It is true. Perhaps I am a bit heavy these days. But, that is the life we lead, no? I drink the best liquor, eat the best food, fuck the prettiest women. I have no complaints if I must gain a few pounds as a result. Cost of doing business, you might say.”

Nothing he said was surprising. Sergei had always been a man of appetites, to put it nicely. To put it not so nicely, I might have said that he was a fat, greedy pig. But saying such a thing to the man’s face was a quick path to more pain and suffering than I was willing to deal with at the present moment.

I was fucked up enough in the head as it was. It had been, what, four months since the strike on Tristan’s warehouse? Four months since the party? God, I couldn’t believe how quickly that time had gone. It seemed like just yesterday that Bolt was dragging huge satchels of cash into my office while we cackled over our good fortune.

Since then, though, it had been a slow unraveling. I knew why, at least in part. I hadn’t said her name out loud since the morning she left, but those eyes stuck with me. They damn near haunted me, showing up every time I managed to grab some shuteye or even just paused to think for a moment. Those grey fucking eyes.

But there were other things bothering me, too, mostly business-related. We hadn’t heard a peep out of the Knives in the days and weeks since their stash got taken. It didn’t make a goddamn bit of sense. Who gave up that much money, over a million in cold, hard cash, without even looking for it? For Christ’s sake, at the very least they could have bothered to put up a fucking “Lost—Please Return” poster. But no, it had been stony silence. All of the gossip channels had fallen dead quiet. I didn’t like that shit at all.

And if I didn’t like something, then Zeke was sure as hell brooding over it. I pictured him as he was waiting for me outside, chain-smoking those Camels like the end was nigh. He had a funny way of being nervous. Looking at his face, you’d think he was at a funeral, but I knew damn well that his leg started bouncing frantically whenever he thought no one could see him.

Then again, it was his job to worry. In this case, it was justified. Men with a reputation for bloody retribution—men like Tristan Jenison—didn’t just
let things go
. They didn’t simply allow their money to walk out the door and say, “Aw, shucks, shouldn’t have let that happen.” No. What they did was strike back with double the strength, inflict double the pain. We’d been braced for it, on the off chance that he had discovered who was responsible for the theft. But the weeks of tension were starting to take their toll on my nerves.

“So, Micah, tell me: what is it that brings you here today?” Sergei’s eyes were glinting an icy blue. He picked up a switchblade knife from his desktop, flicked it open, and began shaving down his fingernails.

I glanced down at my hands in my lap before clearing my throat and launching into the spiel we’d rehearsed. “We’ve been giving this some thought, Sergei,” I began. “We think that there’s been, let’s say, a little bit of
unrest
in the city as of late. Nothing major, nothing to be too worried about, but definitely some tremors here and there. Little upstarts. Guys edging in on each other’s turf. Some illicit business that no one in charge ever condoned.”

The things I was saying were true, to a certain extent. There’d been a prostitution ring shipping in hookers from Eastern Europe that got some unpleasant attention from the local PD with the full backing of the feds. I looked down on that as much as the next man, but the fact of the matter was that any extra focus on organized crime put a crosshair on the back of me and the men in my MC. We preferred to stay under the radar rather than star on the six o’clock news.

Along with the heavily publicized bust of that particular organization, there’d been the usual spate of shootings, stabbings, and bodies left to hang as some of the lower level gangs duked it out for control of one or two city blocks.

Taken altogether, it was nothing too far out of the norm, but Zeke and I had agreed that this was the best angle to drum up. We had one goal in mind for this meeting, and it depended on us convincing Sergei that he needed us as much as we needed him.

“Sure, sure.” He nodded. “And?”

“It makes us a little, oh, I don’t know…uncomfortable,” I continued. “I like the status quo. I don’t want to see it changing anytime soon.”

Sergei blinked and waited for me to go on.

“The real straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak, was this theft. I don’t know if you’ve heard about it. For some reason, it was kept very quiet.”

His eyebrows shot up. I had his attention, but this was the tricky part, the one most liable to get us in a hot, heaping load of trouble if we triggered the wrong reaction. “Do tell,” he said.

“Someone—no one knows who—stole an awful lot of money from the Knives of Fury.”

“Tristan Jenison’s crew.”

“Those’re the guys.”

“Not the most, eh, friendly of men is Tristan?”

“He is the farthest thing from it. Devil spawn, if you ask me, but you didn’t, so I won’t say that.”

Sergei didn’t laugh this time. “Micah, what does this have to do with you and me?”

I steeled my gaze. “Given the unpleasant history between Tristan and myself, we’ve got a suspicion that he thinks we’re the ones responsible for robbing him blind. That, combined with all the other troubling things going on in every damn corner of this city, got us to thinking that we could do with an ally right about now. Someone to watch our back while we watch theirs. Call it a defense pact, if you’d like.”

Sergei eyed me for a long few seconds, then went back to carving off the ends of his fingernails. I had no choice other than to sit and wait. He was the kind of man to take his time before speaking. And when he said things, he said them once only. Every word was final.

Finally, he set the knife down, steepled his fingers, and looked at me again. “I like you, Micah,” he said. “Hell, my wife likes you, too. When we have done business before, it has gone very well for both of us, and what is there not to like about making money?”

My heart sank. I knew this couldn’t be headed in a good direction.

He wagged a finger sadly in the air between us. “But I cannot say yes to this right now. Perhaps even you were the one to take Tristan’s money. I have no way of knowing, and I will not insult you by asking. What I do know is that there is much bad blood between Tristan’s club and your own. That was very bad business that took place those few years ago, very bad indeed. I do not like to be mixed up in such things when I have no skin of my own in the game, you know? I am very sorry, friend, but I cannot help you.”

The teenager returned with a bottle of vodka and two glass tumblers in hand, looking like he’d just run up a dozen flights of stairs.

“Here you are, Sergei,” he mumbled as he set the items down in front of his boss.

“Ach!” Sergei said. He smacked the boy in the back of the head and the kid recoiled, then stood there shame-faced. “What good are you? Taking hours and hours just to find the goddamn drinks? Get the hell out of this room. I don’t want to look at you.” He turned to me and gave me an apologetic shrug of the shoulders. “My apologies, Micah. My son is often useless. You have no children of your own, no?”

“No.”

“Well, perhaps one day you will. You will see then how you love them so much and still want to slap them in their stupid heads every time you see them. Anyway, here, drink.” He poured a few fingers’ worth of vodka into the tumbler and slid it across the table to me. I reached out and brought it to my lips.

The smell almost made me vomit. Tangy, brutal, cold, it was everything I felt personified in a drink. “To old friendships,” Sergei said solemnly, toasting me. I inclined my glass towards him and threw the drink back in one gulp. He smacked his lips and let out a satisfied, “Ahh.”

“Thanks for your time, Sergei,” I said in a low voice.

“For you, Micah? Always. Must you be off? Can I interest you in anything else? Drugs? Girls? Perhaps a girl. You look so pale, my friend. Maybe a good blowjob will improve your color. Alexei, go get Anna!”

The boy turned to leave, but I held up a hand. “It’s okay, really. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? This girl gives head like your dick is a straw and there is only the littlest bit of water left! It is incredible!” He guffawed and slapped the desk.

“No, I’m all good,” I repeated. I set the glass back on the table top and stood. “I gotta get going anyway. It’s good to see you. Thanks for the drink, Alexei.”

Shit. That didn’t go the way I wanted it to go at all.

# # #

“So now what?” Zeke asked me. We were standing outside in the simmering heat of the late afternoon, smoking cigarettes and racking our brains for just what the fuck we should do next.

“I don’t know,” I replied. This had admittedly been a bit of a hail Mary, and one born out of nervousness, too. “The problem is that we would gain way more from a defensive partnership with the Bratva than they would gain from us. Especially since, you know, we were the ones who took the money from Tristan in the first place.”

Zeke snorted. “Sergei believed you?”

“I never know what that bastard is thinking. He’s as cold-blooded as they come.”

“But you didn’t tell him the truth.”

“We didn’t exactly get that far.”

“He knew.”

“Probably.”

He shrugged. “Could have been worse. At least he didn’t threaten to rat us out to the Knives.”

“For the right price, that Russian motherfucker will do anything. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”

“Says the one who just lied to the man’s face.”

I turned and glared at him. “Whose side are you on here?”

He took a long drag on his cigarette, then dropped it to the sidewalk and ground it out beneath his booted heel. “I’m just sayin’.”

“Yeah, well, don’t. It ain’t helping.”

“So, the question remains—now what?”

A long sigh came whistling between my teeth. “Even if it hadn’t been us, Tristan’s going to suspect it. He hates us like we’re the fucking plague.”