Breakdown (20 page)

The truck was backed up to the wholesaler’s with its ass jammed into the open shutters. The bed of the truck was already piled high with pallets, the clink of glass grating on my nerves with each time I was forced to avoid killing one of our own with the forklift truck I worked. The bastards kept getting in the fucking way.

“Tarpaulin,” hissed Smithy, Cutter’s dumbass ex-con mate, whose heavy good’s driving skills weren’t exactly living up to the hype, considering he was struggling with the bloody basics from the look of it. Down the one side of the truck where a few of the lads were already trying to fasten the curtain in place, Smithy hadn’t made half as much progress as the lads on the other side.

Jumping down from the forklift with the last pallet almost on the home straight, I tried to ignore the pitch blackness along the row of units outside. One truck seemed smart. Even though we had a copy of the main keys and a good idea of who came to and from the building (Rowan was good at keeping his head down and at least casing the joint), we still seemed to stick out like a sore dick in the snow. Maybe it just felt that way because Steve wasn’t here; everything just felt wrong tonight, including not trusting a single one of Cutter’s cunts here. The unease lessened knowing we were pinching just the oil instead of the whole goddamn engine; it seemed damn smart now. Cutter hated drawing too much attention anyway, so a few pallets from each section: whiskey, vodka, whatever other stuff people got shit-faced on, wouldn’t be noticed for a few days. That way, there was opportunity to come back and take some more in a month or so. Why bleed the bastards dry in one night when you can live off them for a lifetime?

Smithy was messing with the tarpaulin, sweat running down plump cheeks. “Bloody thing’s stuck,” he hissed from up ahead.

“Bloody move, then.” He did, and I slipped under the lorry and came back out a moment later. Spotting a crowbar on top of one the crates, I went and grabbed it.

“What?” said Smithy. “Not that, you’ll fucking break i—”

I hit the tarpaulin clasp, freeing up the spring return clip. The crates themselves came with the name of the warehouse. Couldn’t really afford to have the curtain waving
C’mere, love
at the cops all the way home. It would get us pulled over and screwed. “Don’t take a fucking genius,” I snarled, fastening the clip. “You think you can pull your finger out your ass long enough to drive back without fucking that up?”

Smithy shouted something to the guys on the other side, something about keeping a watch out for the release springs, then he came in close. “Watch who you’re fucking talkin—”

My hand met his throat, pulling him closer. “Mouth.” I ran a thumb over his lips. “Shut it....” I let a smile creep up. “You’re making me late.”

His eyes searched mine, real rapid like.

“You forgot who fucked you the other night, kid?” But his voice was a broken whisper, and he followed it up with a smile that didn’t last for long.

Patting his cheek, I slipped a foot behind him and gave a small push at his shoulder. Smithy hit the floor hard and the crook of the crowbar went between his legs, digging into his bollocks, forcing him to cry out as I lifted his ass up off the floor via the material covering his balls. “Always up for it, me. Wanna see how?”

“Jack.” Jeff came out of nowhere, pulling me back, and grabbing at the crowbar before letting it clatter to the shop floor. Jeff was back with me. “We’re done. We need to get moving. C’mon, baby.”

I looked at Smithy as he scrambled to his feet. “Well go on, then. Chop, chop. Drive the fucking truck like you were paid to.”

Smirking as Smithy stormed off up into the cabin, I caught Jeff’s shake of head, but he kept it at just that, which was fucking peachy by me. After throwing the crowbar up into the cabin, I headed over to the forklift and finished loading the last pallet on my side. Gus was busy on the other side, just a few pallets behind, and he’d finished by the time I was locking the forklift back in place. A call over to Lance in the office saw that the CCTV had been messed with, then nearly everyone was getting in their rides as I locked up, making sure nothing was left disturbed.

Twice the lock played up, twice I hit it, regretting I hadn’t gotten the crowbar there to smack it one. It didn’t exactly help when I dropped the keys and stood staring down at them.

“C’mon,” hissed Jeff from the driver’s side of a Ford.

“Slightly pissed there, Jack?” said Rowan as I slipped in beside him. I graced him with a glance, nothing more before slipping on my belt. Didn’t know why, but the guilt eased a little knowing we hadn’t bled Mase’s old man dry. If an inventory found the theft out, which, considering the size of the joint, looked highly unlikely, the insurance would cover it. No loss for admin staff or employees, especially those who worked hard just to survive—Fuck.

Looking out into the blackness of the night as it passed us by, I screwed my eyes shut. Too much... too much of my old man in the air. I needed to get his taint off me.

“Good job,” said Smithy, easing into a grin. “Like clockwork, Jack.”

Fucking arse-licker. Letting my head rest back, I settled down...

“Jack?”

I jerked awake, feet already falling from the dashboard as if my old man had smacked them down.

Rowan chuckled. “Home,” he said, grinning, before pulling the truck door wide open. Smithy was already out, off over by Cutter, no doubt bitching about the crowbar stunt. We always met back at one of Cutter’s lockers, this one here not being too far from my old man’s garage, and the familiarity of the place had me wiping my face and giving a full stretch. Cutter kept looking over.

Oh, right, yeah. The crowbar incident. I buried a smirk.

“Forklift’s ready, if you’re up for it,” said Rowan, adding a few stretches of his own. Bastard always seemed to copy. S’why I preferred Steve on a job: at least he thought for himself. It was needed if things went balls up: it was the runner’s job to act as go-between, letting everyone know how to stay in touch once we were split.

Smithy at least had the sense to sulk off as I jumped down and slammed the door shut behind me. Lance was already working the tarpaulin on the other side, and I set to work on mine as Rowan pulled the forklift out.

“Any issues?”

“Fuck.” I wrapped my knuckle on the spring I’d released earlier, and twisted around, shaking the hurt. Giving a grin, Cutter looked down.

“Hurt yourself there, kid?”

I went still as he came in a little closer.

“I’ve just had Smithy bitching over how you played him up in front of the lads tonight.” A hand ran under my jaw. “He’s new, learning the ropes. Also a good friend who made sure he kept his mouth shut in jail. I told you to ignore the shit if he got on your nerves. Are you deliberately trying to fuck me off tonight ? What you after, boy?”

Feeling keys dig into my ass, I tugged them out of my back pocket. “He fucked the ropes up he was supposed to be learning. Tosser made the job fifteen minutes longer.”

“No...” All pure forest green eyes and body standing a good two feet taller, Cutter breathed heavy, his breath against my cheek. “Wasn’t the question I asked.” Hands trailed down to mine, swamping them, shifting them up along the tarpaulin despite the few men caught watching. “I asked what the fuck you’re after tonight? You need that bastard side fucking out of you?”

Yeah, ’cause real men get...

Giving a grunt, I forced him back, arching my body into his to make sure.

“You don’t fuck over people I put in your charge.” Cutter was already back in, one hand gripping my hair, the other crushing into my nuts. I grunted as he snarled, “Now. What’s your fucking problem lately?”

“Nothin’.”

“Nothing?”

“I said fucking—”

“Nothing.” A breath brushed my jaw, then a bite. “I liked what you said the first time, kid. Don’t go and spoil it by opening your mouth and back-bitching me.”

Looking down, Cutter gave a smirk, easing off on his grip on my balls and instead rubbing against my dick. “Ooooh, look at the interest there. That’s better.” He flicked a look up, and I held it. “Jeff said you’d made him say sorry.” A smile. “Say sorry to me.” Pushing down between jeans and skin, Cutter grabbed my balls. It was instant, the need to ride the grip, feel my cock slide against his arm, let go on the whore and just enjoy what he could force me to feel, because he’d have to force me.

“Say ‘sorry, Cutter’.” A bite went to my ear.

“Fuck you,” I mumbled against his jaw.

“What did I say about back-bitching?” A second grip went to my hair, forcing me to look at him. Then he kissed at the silver chain I wore. “You want it fucking out of you alright. You finish this here, you go to mine—strip. On my bed, facedown, you spread those legs as wide as they’ll go for me. I might be an hour, I might be four,” another kiss came at my neck, “but you keep those legs open, those hands on your ass, spreading those cheeks.” The grip tightened. “Maybe then I’ll find a lead, keep the bastard chained and fucked for a few days until he drops through exhaustion? That what you’re really pushing for, boy?”

It was there, the bite to snarl back and say “Yeah, rough it up. Fucking c’mon,”—but in the darkness behind Cutter, a row of car lights came on, one after the other. Then with the sound of feet pounding concrete, men were suddenly rushing forward from the darkness.

“Police! Nobody move!”

For a moment no one did as I levelled my gaze on Cutter. Standing in my way, his back was to the light as he looked at me. The grip tightened in my hair. “You fucking lead them back here, boy?” he whispered.

Green eyes hardened, then I was pushed down, under the truck as shots hit concrete. “Fuck,” I cried, covering my head, Cutter coming in close for a moment. Guns. I fucking hated guns.

A hand grabbed me by the back of the neck, forcing my face into the concrete, into the dirt on the floor.

“Wasn’t fucking me,” I snarled, writhing, trying to break free. The hand slipped around to my jaw, pulling me back into Cutter as cries went up.

“You play safe and stay there until I fucking find you. You hear me?” snarled Cutter.

“Off, th’fuck off,” I snarled. His weight was gone, and I was suddenly rolling away to the other side of the truck as the fuzz started to surround it. Smithy and his lot came out, fully armed and returning fire. Where the hell had the guns come from? Hands over head, I kept as small as possible as I made it over to the side of the locker. Rowan was there, messing with the ignition of a Land Rover. Pushing him over to the passenger side, I scrambled in and shifted into diff lock. The main road was back through the cops, ahead was some wasteland that Cutter had made damn sure had an escape route. Not even trusting that, I took a right, and headed straight for some fencing, trusting in the bull bars that were still on this beauty.

“Jack.”

The jolt off the steering wheel as we hit wood raped the hell out of the muscles in my upper arms, but the bull bars did the job, and with a smell of burning rubber and black smoke to boot, we were out on the main road.

“Jack.” Rowan was going wild, eyes on me, the road, behind us, never happy with where they settled as I put as much distance as possible between us and the lockers. “Do... what the shittin’ hell are we gonna do? Cutter—”

“Not my fucking problem.” I’d been facing the cops. All they had to do was put photo fit A to juvy record B and I’d be back looking at my old man through a glass court-room divide, trying to explain this shit and not being able to look at him. But guns? Christ, Cutter had enough firepower back there to bury a few coppers. “Where the hell had the guns come from?”

“Cutter said not to say.”

“What?”

“Jack... what the fuck are we gonna do?”

“Well one thing’s for sure.” I shifted into fifth gear. “No fucker’s putting me back in juvy.”

Pulling up outside Rowan’s, I waited for him to get out, then giving him a look that told him to keep his mouth shut, I headed over to Steve’s. It was getting on for one in the morning, and true to his word, the back door was open. Keeping the kitchen dark and knocking into a table leg in the process, I made the sink my first stop, just washing off the dirt. Christ knows why it took three washes to do that, but by then the light had flicked on, and Steve was rubbing at his eyes. Just wearing PJ bottoms, ribs showing well enough to play a tune on them, he padded these big furry slippers over.

“What’s...?”

“Get some clothes on, gloves too, and pull that motor on your drive into the garage.”

Steve stopped rubbing at his eyes, instantly focusing. There was no question as to what happened, no panic, no need to know, just a pulling on of his jumper and then his disappearance into the garage. Reaching for the soap a fourth time, I briefly closed my eyes, forcing relaxation.

“Everything okay?”

Glancing over my shoulder, Carole stood in the doorway between kitchen and lounge. Two years older than Steve, she was going to make a damn sexy mother again. Before I could answer, Steve was back in the kitchen, throwing me a towel, then backing Carole into the living room.