18. Isaac

CHAPTER 18

ISAAC

The warehouse we’re in is a monument to the darker deeds of the Thoreau family. A legal piece of property owned by a shell corporation that’s in a place owned by someone else who exists only on paper. The trail will never lead to me or my guys.

Inside, the air is thick with the stench of oil and sweat. I stand in the shadows, watching as Jeremy paces like a caged animal in front of Lonny, who's tied to a chair that seems as rickety as his courage. We picked him up on the streets last night.

"Talk," Jeremy growls, his voice a blade sharpened on the whetstone of impatience.

I step closer, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my slacks, toying with the cold metal of the lighter that reminds me of Hawk and that impossible buzzing closeness between us the other day on the rooftop when we shared a cigarette.

I realign my focus, attempting to discard the constant reverberations of him through my skull - but it's a fight that leaves me winded.

I remember his scent mixing with mine and the echo of his soft mouth welcoming my own.

Fuck. Another distraction I don’t need right now.

In front of me, Lonny's eyes are darting around, seeking an escape where there is none. His lips quiver, and for a moment, he looks like a child lost in a nightmare. But this is no dream. This is my world.

"Fuck… you," Lonny spits out, blood and defiance staining his words.

With a swift motion, Jeremy backhands him. The sound echoes off the concrete walls, a gunshot without a bullet. Blood arcs from Lonny's split lip, painting a crimson crescent on the floor. It's visceral, this violence, but necessary. Like surgery. You cut to heal.

"Wrong answer," Jeremy says, each syllable laced with a promise of more pain.

"Isaac..." Lonny's gaze finds mine, a silent plea. "Come on, man… Tell your dog to stop already. I don’t know anything."

"Jeremy's not the one you should be worried about," I say, my voice calm, detached. "You know what happens if we don't get what we need."

Jeremy raises his fist, ready to send another blow into Lonny’s already purple face. Lonny’s Adam's apple bobs as he swallows the fear that must taste like bile at the back of his throat. "Okay, okay," he blurts out. "I heard...there were some guys for hire. New blood. They got paid big for...for the job…That’s all I know…I swear."

"Where?" Jeremy demands, knuckles white, prepared to unleash hell again.

Lonny looks at me once more, perhaps seeing the finality in my eyes, the closing of doors. There's a moment when the world holds its breath, waiting. Then, with a whimper that carves through the tension, Lonny starts to speak.

"Auto repair shop," he chokes out, the words tumbling with bloodied spit. "On the corner of South and 3rd... They hang there." His eyes are wild, swinging between Jeremy and me, seeking some semblance of mercy in this merciless place. "Don’t tell anyone I told you. These guys are crazy. They’ll end me the minute they figure out it was me."

"Got a name?" Jeremy's voice is still that same low intimidating growl, barely containing his fury.

"Ask around for...for Razor."

Jeremy nods at me, a silent question—do we believe him?

But before I can answer, Lonny's head lolls forward, consciousness slipping from his grasp like sand through fingers.

"Get him out of here," I order, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. Jeremy hauls Lonny's limp body up, dragging him away from my sight, leaving behind a question shrouded in uncertainty—did Lonny give us everything, or is there more he's hiding?

"And fucking Razor?" Jeremy’s voice echoes through the warehouse several minutes later when he’s back. "Can this guy be any less original? Huh, Blade?"

"If he wants to be me…sure… let him try," I supply with a dark chuckle.

These wannabes have no fucking clue what comes with bearing the Thoreau name.

"…these have quite the kick, eh, Blade?" Toro says while his hands work over the cold metal of a Russian-made pistol. "Like a mule."

I’m holding the identical piece and watching him, watching the harsh lighting carve deep shadows across his rugged face. His eyes gleam with a mix of admiration and greed as they trace the contours of the weapon in his grip.

I nod, chambering a round with a satisfying click. "Good balance, too."

"Si." Toro sets the pistol aside and runs a calloused finger along the sleek barrel of an AK-47, treating the rifle with the reverence of a lover. "Es una belleza," he murmurs. "The gun seems to preen under his touch, as if aware of its privilege. "I don't often cross the border, Isaac," Toro admits, "but I'm glad I did for this."

"They're making them well over there."

"They do," I agree, setting the pistol down and picking up a sniper rifle, inspecting the scope. The chill from the gun seeps into my bones, a reminder of the death these machines deal without prejudice.

"Solid product," Toro continues, each word measured, tasting of agave and iron. Rumors follow him like shadows—of bodies buried in the walls of his villa, of enemies vanished like mist over Rio Grande, whispers that even the devil tips his hat to Toro when they meet at crossroads.

"Reliable too." He lifts his face to mine. "And you need reliable right now. Especially after what happened with your boys." Toro's dark gaze meets mine, probing.

I return his look evenly. "A hiccup, nothing more. Didn’t think you’d hear about it."

"Si, heard it sang all the way to Juarez."

"We're handling it."

"Good." He steps closer, the air between us charged with the voiceless language of power and survival. "I don't need to tell you, Isaac, interruptions are bad for business."

"There won't be any issues." My hand tightens on the rifle I’m holding, a silent vow.

"You’ll make sure of that, right, amigo?" His tone is a velvet threat that hangs heavy in the air between us. It's a dance we've perfected, steps choreographed on a floor littered with spent casings and lost lives.

"Always," I reply.

"Then we are all set," Toro says, satisfaction lining his features.

His men begin to shuffle in, bringing bags filled with currency and taking the crates with products away.

"The Russians—they're icebergs in vodka," Toro says all of a sudden. "What you see, amigo, ain't what'll sink you."

I nod.

"You sure they're tight?" Toro asks.

"Like a noose," I reply, but the assurance rings hollow even to my ears. The Russian group is a card shuffled into our deck—unfamiliar, untested.

"Because if they're not," he continues, "it's your neck in the loop ?entiendes?"

I don't need him to spell it out for me. It has always been clear; dealing with the cartel is like dancing on the tightrope of mortality. One foot is in the perpetual grave.

"I do. We’ve bled more and smiled through it," I tell Toro, trying to infuse my words with casual confidence.

"I trust you’ll keep it under control." He doesn't sound entirely persuaded, but his lackeys have already finished lugging out the crates brimming with firearms. High-quality merchandise speaks for itself after all, no matter which side of the law you're on.

Sometime after Toro's silhouette shrinks into the waning sunlight, I find myself standing amidst the cold steel and stale air of the warehouse, feeling the weight of his warning on my shoulders grow impossibly heavy.

I draw a breath that tastes of gunmetal and dust, and release it slowly, steadying myself while the space around me comes alive with the sound of fluttering bills.

Jeremy and Seven sit at a makeshift table littered with stacks of cash, their laughter bouncing off the walls, a grim counterpoint to this afternoon's unease.

"Damn, look at this haul," Jeremy crows, thumbing through a stack with practiced ease. "Enough here to make the entire Vegas blush."

Seven grins, eyes alight with greed. "I'm thinking Italian leather, custom fit. And maybe one of those watches—so shiny you need shades to tell the time."

"Ask boss." Jeremy cackles. "He knows about watches." His gaze lifts from the green sea of bills, locking onto mine. "So, what's your play, Blade? You think these Russians are worth the risk?"

I feel the weight of the question, each syllable like lead. My fingers graze the cold metal of a gun on the table—Russian make, precision and power forged into steel. It's a silent testament to potential, to the kind of firepower that could tip scales in our favor if we are the only buyer in town.

"Solovey…" I muse, eyes narrowing as I roll the weapon over in my hand, feeling its balance. "He brings more than just guns to the table. He has connections, reach... and ambition."

"Exactly." Jeremy nods, his scar stretching with the motion, a jagged line through his history written on skin. "That's what worries me, Isaac. Ambition has a way of biting back."

"Then we bite harder," I state, the words slicing through the air, a decision sharpened to a fine point. "We need what they offer. This isn't about trust. It's about leverage. We use them to strengthen our grip on the city and continue building our relationship with Toro. Any backlash... we'll handle it."

"Handle it," he echoes, skepticism threading through his tone. But it's not a question. He knows better than to doubt an order. His loyalty is a constant, unwavering as the walls of this warehouse.

"Your call," Seven says, his voice lighter but edged with the same tension that tightens Jeremy's jaw. A shared understanding among us that this partnership is a double-edged sword—one we're all willing to wield.

"Tell the Russians we're in for a long haul," I order Jeremy, my resolve hardening like the concrete underfoot. "Set up the next meet. It's time to show them how we operate."

"And the ambush?"

"Let's keep it quiet and continue digging for now."

The room falls silent, save for the soft rustle of cash being stacked, the sound now more a prelude to war than a celebration of profit. There's no joy in this decision, only the grim acknowledgment that in our world, alliances are as fragile as the bones we so often break.