31. Thomas

CHAPTER 31

Thomas

Derrick Lindman's warmly apologetic voice and the distant barks of his goddamn dogs have never been more hateful to me than they are in this moment. "Unfortunately, Mr. Warwick, I'm afraid that a raid of that scale is going to take at least three days to put together. I have to get various permissions from the mayor… I have to meet with my assistant sheriffs… Alter the weekly patrol schedule… Then there's the budget restrictions…"

I fight every muscle in my right arm that wants to slam my phone against my desk until it shatters. Just yesterday I pulled out all the stops to convince Derrick to support my war with Morgan Speare. I'd anticipated a week's wait, maybe two, until the Sheriff's men could be organized into multiple concurrent raids. But last night Morgan managed to defy every one of my heightened safety measures by bribing a man on the inside.

Again.

A dealer at my own club planted the bomb that went off last night, then managed to stage a smoke break to escape the blast himself.

How the fuck am I supposed to win a war when my own people are turning against me?

Better yet, where is Morgan getting the money to bribe men that I pay quite generously? His empire is not worth as much as mine, and he's a known traitor. Despite that, men who owe their loyalty to me are doing his dirty work. Why?

Fear is one of the more potent motivators, but my protection is good. At least, it is until those I'm protecting decide to bite the hand that feeds them. What could Morgan be threatening to do that would cause men to jeopardize their own good fortunes?

Derrick is still droning on. Iris, on her third cup of assam, glares at the phone in my hand like she can stab him across the radio waves. She's already offered to torture compliance out of him, and if I don't keep my own calm, she might take matters into her own hands before the day is over.

Seven people died last night, and twenty more were injured. Four of the dead were people under the protection of the Warwicks. The names of my lost are beginning to rack up, and I haven't even taken a swing. Less importantly, but still something I must take into account, is the loss of income from both the club and the bar above it, which was also a place where I did a great deal of product storage.

All in all, this was a very strategic first blow by Morgan, which is… unusual. His approach to warfare tends to consist of sheer brutality. I never would have expected something like this from him.

Which means someone else is whispering in his ear.

Finally, I interrupt Derrick's neverending list of excuses. "You said you'll have your men organized in three days?"

"Well- I'll do everything in my power, Mr. Warwick, but it might be up to a week before we can come out in the force you need-"

"How about this?" I ask, dropping any pretense of politeness. "For every one Warwick life lost before you get your shit together, I'll take a day off of your term."

There's nothing but an electronic buzz in my ear now. Iris sits up slowly in her chair, her forgotten mug tipping dangerously over her lap. I reach out and tap at it with my finger, and she rights it.

I don't make naked threats. Usually I prefer to make people understand that what I want them to do is what's going to be best for both of us, and let them fill in the blanks with what they fear most themselves. Threats on their own are clumsy to me. They reveal the desperation of the one doing the threatening more often than not.

But right now, I don't care. Clara spent last night trying to manipulate me into throwing her at Morgan like a live grenade, and three restless hours of sleep later, Iris woke me up with the call that a bomb had gone off in our territory. Listening to some two-bit politician whose career I made bullshit me after I've only had two cups of coffee is not going to happen.

At last, Derrick sounds cowed. "I'll have my men ready in three days, Mr. Warwi-," he says, and I hang up before he's done.

The plastic case on my phone creaks a little in my fist, but I don't slam it against the desk.

It's a near thing.

"What an excellent politician he's turning out to be," Iris muses darkly.

"Too excellent," I agree, and stand. "I'm going to inspect the site. Coming?"

She's already been out there once, before the sun was even up, but she nods and follows me out of the office. "With the help of his newfound brain cells, Morgan might expect that you'll make an appearance there, so there's no way in hell you're going without me. "

"Fair enough," I agree. "Meet me at the garage in five."

I only hope Clara is still asleep, so I don't have to explain where I'm going. I spent hours in an emergency meeting with my generals after I first woke up, and another on the phone with Derrick, but it's not too late in the morning that she couldn't still be in bed. Leaving her without an explanation will be cold, but not as cold as telling her for the umpteenth time that she's confined to the estate.

Except that when I arrive at my room- Clara is gone. I take two quick steps into the bathroom and then the closet to make sure she's not hiding in some corner, then immediately call Iris on my way down the hall.

I left Clara in bed, alone, because I couldn't bring myself to wake her up and move her to the guest bedroom that could actually be locked. For all I know, I woke her up when I got out of bed and she only pretended to sleep until I was gone. It's been four hours since then. She could be fucking anywhere .

No, not anywhere. She's at her uncle's house if she's anywhere at all.

Fuck, fuck, fuck .

I go straight to Raleigh's room and throw open the door, forgetting to knock. I'm not surprised when I find it empty. At that moment, Iris answers her phone.

"Clara and Raleigh are missing," I tell her before she can get a word out. "Are you at the garage? Is Raleigh's car there?"

"I'm on my way-" There's a rush on the other side of the phone, and I can tell she's running. I'm running too, but I'm going down to the patio. They could be having breakfast- this could all be a mistake-

"The Bentley's here, Thomas," Iris says. "I'm going to check the patio-"

"I'm here already," I interrupt. "They're not."

"I'll ask the patrol captain-" The sound of more running. I return to Raleigh's room to see if I can find any clues in her things. There are usually clothes lying around on the bed and the floor, and to my eye the mess looks like the usual kind. No signs that she packed anything or left in a hurry.

Her phone is sitting out on her nightstand, which sends a bolt of fear right down my spine. Raleigh never goes anywhere without her phone, and it's one of the simplest ways I have of tracking her location. With it here, we're both blind.

I hear footsteps behind me and I whirl, expecting Iris who usually isn't so noisy, but it's Raleigh looking absolutely furious.

"What the fuck are you doing in my room?!" she demands, rushing past me to snatch up her phone like I came in here just to pry on it.

"What the fuck were you not doing in your-" I cut myself off with a fierce swipe of my hand. "Where is Clara, Raleigh?"

"Wherever she wants to be," Raleigh says nonchalantly. Then she turns on me, suddenly fierce. "Which is her right, by the way. Just because you two are being gross together doesn't mean you get to tell her what to do. She's not your prisoner anymore, she's your-" She grimaces. "Well, she's your whatever. Not your prisoner."

What the everloving fuck is she talking about? "Raleigh, is Clara still on the estate?" I ask through my teeth.

She glares at me. "She's been gone for an hour. Good luck dragging her back."

I have never, ever hit my sister, and I never will. But the rage I feel at her now makes me wish we had the chance to wrestle as children. Hair pulling, clawing, biting, screaming, the works. Maybe if we'd done some healthy fighting as kids, there would be less animosity between us now.

As it is, I have nowhere for this anger to go except toward myself. I put my phone to my ear and storm out. "Raleigh's here, she's in her room, she's fine. But Clara's gone."

I don't process the words until I've heard myself say them. My footsteps slow. Stop. Clara is gone, and even though I know exactly where she is, I can't get her back. Not without throwing lives away.

Last night, when I was inside her, I told myself I'd fight a war for her if I needed to. I'd do anything it takes to protect her. But in the cold light of morning, with dead bodies already piling up… I can't follow through on that whim.

Clara has gone where I can't follow, and if I can believe in anything at all, I have to believe that she has a plan with half a chance of succeeding.

I have to trust her.

It takes me a moment to realize Iris is calling my name. I raise my phone to my ear, but she's not speaking through the phone. She's standing right in front of me, and I was too dazed to notice her.

"Thomas!" she snaps, her eyes wide. When I finally focus on her, she lets out a breath of relief. "Are you okay?" She grabs my wrist to check my vitals for some reason, and I pull out of her grip. "You were unresponsive," she explains.

"I'm thinking," I say stiffly.

Iris plants her hands on her hips. "About?!"

"Clara is gone," I repeat. "I have three days before Derrick can get his raids organized, which means Clara has three days to work on her uncle." I brush past Iris, new energy in my steps, and she follows, still looking slightly alarmed. "If she's still alive after those three days, I'm going in and I'm bringing her home," I promise Iris. "And then I'm making her my wife."