9. Isaac

CHAPTER 9

ISAAC

"Yo, Blade," Riker grunts from the couch across. "This whiskey’s the real deal, man." He raises his glass in appreciation.

No shit. It’s a two-thousand-dollar bottle.

"Yeah, some killer juice," his bruiser, who goes by Fist, confirms.

"I’m glad you’re enjoying it," I reply tightly from my spot near the glass wall where I’m overlooking the moving sea of bodies on the dance floor below.

Inside our VIP sanctuary, the signature Purgatory dim amber lighting spills a seductive glow over the plush velvet couches and sleek glass tables loaded with bottles of top-shelf liquor Riker’s guys are consuming.

They are kiting high on some celebration tonight—not that I give two shits about their reason. So long as they don't stir up shit in my territory, they might as well booze until they can’t walk.

Riker's a heavyweight goon among them—muscle-packed biceps sporting countless tattoos poking out from his collarbone up onto his thick neck. He’s a part of a low-brow band operating at North Vegas where thuggish freelancers gathering around street corners are as common as dirt.

Can’t say I like Riker much.

But hell if I can forget those prison-yard favors when he had my back during rough patches at the beginning of stint... Somehow managed to outrun doom thanks to him then. Debts like this aren’t forgotten easily.

"Damn straight," chimes another one of Riker’s guys, picking his teeth with a gold toothpick. "We ain't had this kinda treatment since... well, never."

A chorus of laughter erupts around me, coarse, like the sound of rusty nails dragged across pavement.

"You've earned it," I reply, not exactly enjoying being a part of this party, but Riker insisted I join his guys for a round of drinks. It's one of those godforsaken hoops you have to jump through when indulging in this twisted dance—our dangerous little game on the shadowy fringes of society.

"Blade, you really know how to show a good time." Smirks a lanky man with a scar slashing through his eyebrow. His eyes linger on me for a moment too long, and I suppress a shudder of revulsion.

Fingers drumming on the marble bar top, I’ve been trying to figure out a slick exit strategy; one that sidesteps causing Riker indigestion or his signature dramatic display. My golden ticket out lands with the sound of the VIP room doors flying open.

Ricky rushes in, his facial expression like a stone but pale and his eyes wide with panic. "Don't mean to break up the party, boys," he pants, "but I need a word with the boss."

"Pour this big guy a shot!" gibbers some hammered idiot douchebag from the back as Ricky weaves his way past the tables and in my direction.

"We've got a situation brewing downstairs that needs your personal attention," he mutters over the pulse of the bass shaking the room.

"Sorry, man." I offer Riker my hand for a shake. "I have to handle this." He delivers a sturdy clap on my back. "You do you, Blade."

"Enjoy your drinks." My voice is drowned out by the sound of their drunken laughter as I slip out of the VIP room, leaving behind the heady scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke.

In the hallway—where we have some sort of privacy because the upper floor is usually empty due to patrons hiding away in their rooms—Ricky’s composure cracks a little.

"Flynn’s been shot," he whispers in panic.

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, my anger flaring up—gasoline on an open flame.

No one touches my guys.

"Who?" I demand.

Ricky shakes his head. "I dunno, man. Hector called, said they were jumped by some gangbangers while they were workin' the Washington corner. They're on their way here now."

Fear and fury twist together inside me like barbed wire as I storm down the hallway. I don't know who dared to strike against one of my own, but I swear to God, they'll pay for it.

Gears of my mind are churning in overdrive, trying to think of a dumbass audacious enough to attack the Thoreau men while we rush downstairs. My shoe heels bite into the metal stairwell as we shoot downstairs and burst out into the labyrinthine alleyway behind the club.

The air outside is hot and even harder to breathe after the rain and each time I inhale, I feel like fire fills my lungs.

The grumbling growl of an engine precedes the big phantom-like shape of an SUV rounding a poorly lit corner. It emerges from one of the numerous back streets that belong to the web of cluttered arteries that run through Vegas' underbelly.

We rush toward it, our silhouettes growing larger against the vehicle's high beams until it sends gravel missiles in every direction while screeching to a halt just shy of us.

Hector springs out of the vehicle, leaving the engine on standby. "He’s in the back!" he yells, panting. His hands are all bloody. "Bullet’s still inside. It’s bad, boss."

I was born into this world—where human lives are like pieces on the chessboard of the rich and powerful. I’ve seen shit growing up. I’ve seen shit in prison. But someone hurting my own makes me feel…guilty.

These people are family.

These people, these so-called society discards are loyal to me to the bone.

And I’m supposed to protect them.

It’s my duty.

My responsibility.

Now though, that weight increased tenfold as I see Flynn splayed in the back seat. His blood, spilling profusely from the abdomen he’s holding on to with both hands, is smeared across faux leather like some sick reinterpretation of modern art.

In this moment, I realize I failed him.

I failed his two kids and his wife and it makes me mad.

Mad at myself.

Failure tastes bitter—its harsh sting blurs my vision into a cloudy grey. Sound bounces off around me like a muffled, overwhelming underwater echo.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I hear Jeremy’s voice mixed with Marco’s when I turn toward the panicked speech, I see them emerging from around the corner from the direction of the warehouse entrance.

Glock swings in Jeremy’s grip as he charges forward with frantic energy.

"Warehouse now!" he orders.

Ricky and I struggle to haul Flynn's barely conscious form from the claustrophobic space of an SUV. His body is limp, uncooperative like dead weight, lulling between consciousness amidst the leather seat's stale scent of fear.

"Someone call Doc!" I shout a command.

"Already did, boss," Marco calls out.

But I know it'll be too long before help arrives, and every second counts with a bullet lodged in Flynn's body.

And then amidst this clusterfuck, Jeremy starts walking away.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I hear him grit out as I allow Marco and Hector take charge of Flynn’s body to get him inside to the warehouse.

I follow Ricky's gaze and spot a figure a little further away, leaning against the brick wall next to the club's back door. A lit cigarette is dangling from his lips. He's partially hidden in the shadows and I can’t see his face, but I know who he is.

Hawk.

"Who the fuck told you you can be here?" Jeremy snarls, pointing his gun at him.

I glance back at Hector and Marco.

"We got it, boss," Marco confirms. "Just need that doctor here soon."

I nod and turn around, then follow Jeremy.

The three of us silently exchange gazes when I reach Hawk. The tension in the air is undeniable, bowstring-tight.

"He’s going to bleed out in the next ten minutes," Hawk says calmly, taking a drag of his cigarette before flicking it away.

"Somebody fucking asked your opinion, asshole?" Jeremy growls, shoving his Glock at Hawk’s shoulder.

There’s silence again and I use this moment to assess the man in front of us. Is he the stupid kind or is he the kind that knows when to mind his own business?

"I have medical experience," he says quietly. "I can stop the bleeding until your doctor gets here."

I don’t know if I like how calm he sounds or if it pisses me off. Besides, it’s fucking suspicious. I’m certain Jeremy agrees with me. Because when he glances at me over his shoulder, he says, "Boss, I don’t like this fool," his finger hovering over the trigger.

I shift my eyes back at Hawk, part of me latches on his offer to help because Doc lives fucking far… He needs at least thirty minutes to an hour to get here. And Flynn doesn’t have this much time. Every goddamn second counts.

"I patched up a lot of my boys back in Afghanistan," Hawk says, oblivious to the fact that Jeremy’s holding his gun on him.

And while I force myself to think rationally, desperation and fear—fear of losing Flynn—claws at my insides.

"Up to you." Hawk shrugs, his gaze locked on mine. "But your guy…he’ll die before help arrives."

Jeremy lifts his Glock and points it at Hawk’s cheek. "How about you die first, asshole?"

"Fine." Decision made, I step forward, my eyes never leaving Hawk’s. "Let’s do this," I whisper at him into the tight space of the few hot inches between us. "If you stop the bleeding, we forget this ever happened. If Flynn dies before Doc gets here, you die with him."

"Okay," he says simply.

Jeremy pulls his gun back. "And don’t even think about trying anything funny."

So, then it’s decided.

I’m letting someone new, someone I don’t trust one bit into my circle.

I don’t like strangers knowing about my business. But I don’t have a choice. I have to do everything in my power to keep Flynn alive and if it means I’m risking being exposed, I’ll do it anyway. Because without people like Flynn, all this that I have doesn’t make sense, doesn’t matter.

And every second wasted on arguing is another second closer to losing Flynn.

We slink off into the dance of the night, a trio of shadowy silhouettes pressing on with an urgency toward the looming presence of the warehouse.

Out front, I'm beating the path, Hawk latched onto my footsteps like a dedicated echo and Jeremy is hugging our rear end, his Glock ready to sprint into action if necessary.

He’s not usually this trigger-happy but I can understand why he can’t keep his cool. He and Flynn are tighter than blood brothers - thrown together in some godforsaken foster home they forged a bond that held even when fate tore Jeremy away.

Friendships like this are like gold.

When we push through the warehouse doors, every head in the room spins our way. A string of angry questions fly at me.

"What the fuck, Blade!"

"Why is this fool here?"

"Are you serious?"

I ignore the stares and approach the metal table where Flynn is currently lying on a quickly thrown-together makeshift operation site that reminds me of a battlefield after an explosion, reeking heavily of iron-rich blood.

Something crunches under my shoe as I move and when I drop a quick glance down I notice tools scattered across the floor, must have been discarded to make room for the wounded man. There’s a puddle of blood and I realize I stand in it, in this sticky crimson.

"Hey, man." I lean forward and whisper in Flynn’s face, cupping his head. "Hold on a little, alright? Doc is on the way."

I don’t know if he can hear me. He’s only half lucid.

"What’s this puto doing here, man?" Hector snarls under his breath while staunching Flynn's wound with trembling hands.

"He’s got medical combat experience," I counter tersely, watching Hawk from the corner of my eye as he urgently wrestles out of his suit jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his white dress shirt.

Without a word, he darts over to Flynn's side and begins examining the wound. My crew is circling him like starved predators over prey as if waiting for him to make a mistake so they could tear him apart. At least until Ricky shouts, "Make some fucking room, ya’ll! Let the man do his job."

They reluctantly shuffle backwards, creating breathing space around Hawk. Everyone except Hector, who is still pressing on Flynn’s wound per Hawk’s quick instruction.

I edge away from the chaos too. Distance aids clarity of thought.

With everyone’s emotions raw and exposed, now more than ever calm needs exponential personification: Me.

"Boss," Jeremy sidles up to my side and whispers, "I don’t like this, how he wormed his way in."

"We’ll talk about it later," I say, my mind focused on Flynn, even though tension bunches my muscles so tight it could snap any moment if stretched any thinner.

I watch him—this stranger who works in my club—watch him move with an unsettling calm and precision. His hands are steady, unflinching, as he assesses the damage.

"Can you keep him alive until the surgeon gets here?" I ask over the noise filling the warehouse.

"I think so," he mumbles back, gaze glued to the job at hand. "I'll do my best."

"He better live," Jeremy warns, his words grinding out between clenched teeth.

I rest my palm on his shoulder and we exchange stares that speak volumes. Understanding passes between us.

This is our only option.

And Jeremy, no matter how much he hates this, knows it too.

Hawk doesn't respond. He’s already launching quick orders of his own.

He needs scissors.

Marco thrusts his recently christened pocketknife into Hawk's palm without skipping a beat.

Antiseptic. Or something of the sort.

Ricky blunders toward us holding an open bottle of low-grade vodka like holy water.

Towels.

And so on and so forth.

Until a hollow silence suffocates every other sound.

The wound is deep and messy, tearing open his flesh like a grenade went off inside him.

Blast radius similar to point-blank shotgun damage, I deduce in my head as hate coils tightly inside me.

Bastard who did that will pay.

But for now, I’m not going to worry about revenge. I’m going to worry about Flynn, ask the motherfucker upstairs to spare his life.

There’s more blood pooling on the concrete floor as Hawk focuses on Flynn’s wound.

My heart thuds in my chest, each beat echoing my desperation for Flynn to pull through. The rest of my crew hover nearby, their expressions a mixture of worry and uncertainty. This stranger holds one of our own in his hands, and again, I feel like I've failed them by letting it come to this.

"Got it," Hawk murmurs, pulling the bullet from Flynn's flesh with a pair of pliers. He quickly applies pressure to the wound, staunching the flow of blood, then grabs the stapler Ricky has doused in the vodka and staples the wound. "He's stable for now but there are pellets still left in his abdomen. He needs real surgery and antibiotics."

"Okay," I say, my voice strained.

Next to me, Jeremy mutters a series of frustrated curses under his breath, running his hands through his short hair.

I walk over to the table at the same time Hawk steps away from it. He looks at me as if asking what next, the tight space between us almost vibrating.

I look back, scanning his white dress shirt covered in blood, his hands too.

"There’s a bathroom," I tell him, jerking my chin toward the door in the very corner. My voice is low and emotionless despite the chaos inside my head.

Hawk nods and slips away. The tension in the room eases slightly, replaced by sick anticipation. The seconds stretch into painfully long minutes while I pace the length of the warehouse, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts–guilt, relief, and a flicker of begrudging gratitude toward the man who'd just saved Flynn's life.

Doc arrives ten minutes later.

He surveys Hawk’s handiwork, head shaking in disbelief, but grudgingly admits that this butchering might have been Flynn's lifeline.

Jeremy hauls me away and toward the restroom door. "Boss," he hisses out as Doc begins his work. "What are we gonna do about that fool?"

He means Hawk.

The gut reaction would be to threaten him into silence or erase him off completely—an action right up Jacob’s alley—but I'm not one to end lives needlessly. The death taste lingers unpleasantly at the back of my throat; a rare sentimentality for men like us.

After a moment of loaded silence with the backdrop of Doc's steady drone of medical tools against skin, I reply, "I’ll handle it."

Jeremy grunts out something unintelligible and disgruntled but doesn’t challenge my words.

I quickly extend my arm and gesture toward his Glock, and he immediately hands it over to me.

Cool to touch, it's oddly serene but also fills me with piping trepidation as I make my way to the bathroom, halting for a second before pushing the door open.

The swell of power is bittersweet, like dark chocolate against my tongue. Its taste pulses through me, lending its heavy notes to this complex symphony of sensations that is unfolding inside me.

The door squeals softly, revealing Hawk shirtless in front of the sink, wiping the last remnants of blood from his torso with a damp cloth.

Time seems to slow for a moment as I take in the sight before me–every inch of him carved with precision, like a statue forged by some master sculptor. A labyrinth of scars crisscrosses the skin on his right abdomen, wrapping around his trim waist and spreading its gnarled swirls onto his lower back.

Several tattoos canvas his body. A phrase on his left pec. Semper fidelis . An anchor on his right shoulder. There’s ink on his back too but I can’t see it from my limited view.

The scent here is strong. Soap. Blood. Fear.

Behind me, the door slides shut with a metal clang and the sounds of commotion out in the warehouse fade away, leaving us alone with only the drip of water still running.

Hawk spins in place to face me, and we're locked in an unspoken conflict, a battle of intense gazes.

I keep expecting him to break the silence but he doesn't; instead, his gaze slides down toward my hand—the one clutching the Glock by my side.

I march over to him, every stride sure and loud, bloody shoes clacking against concrete floors.

Suddenly, our faces are mere inches apart and it feels like we’re sharing the same air, breathing in each other’s warmth, hazardous and intimate all at once.

I use my free hand to nudge him back against the sink, then place both hands on the marble surface on either side of him, trapping him entirely. Jeremy’s Glock still in my grasp, clattering softly over the counter.

"Who are you?" I ask quietly with the obvious threat in my voice.

"Cody…Smith."

I lift up my hand holding the Glock and press the barrel into his chest, right above the ink. The sight of steel on flesh makes my insides roar.

I get high on power. It intoxicates me like no other high. And seeing Hawk at my mercy is pure bliss.

"Why did you offer to help?"

"A man was going to bleed to death."

Apprehension crawls up inside of me and holds me tight. I suck in a deep breath through my nose and drag the barrel of the Glock down his pec and over his rib cage.

He doesn’t flinch.

"I’m going ask you again," I grit out. "Who in the hell are you and why are you here?"

Hawk keeps on staring at me. His eyes are icy-blue and clear, a stark contrast to his bronzed skin and his midnight-black hair. "I work for you," he whispers.

"Hmm." I match his glare that’s making me feel exposed in a way I haven't felt in years. There's something about this man that sets me on edge, a primal instinct warning me not to let my guard down. "You work at the club. There’s a difference."

"I’m open to other opportunities," he supplies promptly.

"What kind of opportunities?"

"Opportunities to make decent money." He pauses. "Pension doesn’t pay the bills, you know."

"Right." I shove the gun into his gut, and finally, he loses his composure and shudders. Glock still pressed into his abdomen, I bring my face closer to his and whisper, "I don’t hire people I don’t trust."

"I think I’ve proven my worth."

We continue to stand there, eyes locked in a warfare of wills.

My dumb heart pounding with a mixture of adrenaline and something I can't quite put my finger on. And I don’t fucking like it.

It’s been a long time since someone rattled me this much. And Cody fucking Smith is a trip. An enigma.

And I fucking hate unsolved mysteries.

I yank the gun away from his body and take a step back.

He remains motionless, lower back pressed up to the sink counter, dress pants covered by splotches of dried blood, firm chest rising and falling with each breath.

"I wouldn’t push my luck if I were you," comes my final warning as I rip my gaze away from him.

The inexplicable, simmering tension between us remains unresolved as I leave the bathroom.