Chapter Nine

“ A N ALARMING NUMBER of warehouse robberies have taken place in downtown Charlotte in the last three days, costing freight shipping mogul, Anthony Spencer, of Export Execs, an estimated 1.8 million dollars in merchandise ,” the radio anchor reports as I pull up to the warehouse.

Idling in my Camaro, I scan our bustling compound as the reporter drones on. “ Authorities believe that Spencer is being directly targeted, but the police have no leads at this time. They ask if anyone has any information— ”

Killing the engine, I exit as Peter backs his Fleet van into the warehouse next to Jeremy’s, which is being unloaded to add Spencer’s merch to our stock of goods.

Loaded dollies are carted toward the warehouse as Denny stops them taking inventory before they’re hauled in. Russell pulls the last van up as satisfaction runs through me, and I shoot off a text to Tyler in wait for Sean.

All birds safely in the nest.

Jeremy exits the driver’s side of his van and makes his way toward me, pride evident in his eyes. Peter is on his heels, and his expression is lit with the same sentiment. It’s earned because it’s one of Peter’s first major scores while being a part of our secret.

“Where’s Sean?” I glance back at the open security gate.

“Cecelia asked him to teach her how to drive, and they took off,” Jeremy supplies stalking toward where I stand just outside my driver’s door. “We grabbed the vans and came just after...but did you see her in that fucking dress? I don’t think I’d show up for roll call if I had that ass in my driver’s seat, either.”

Russell joins us with Peter on his heels, both seemingly just as high from the take—as they should be. Everything we stole was lifted without sounding a single fucking alarm until after the fact.

Just after, each bird drove the loaded vans to different safe houses to lay low for a few days until we could get them here without detection. Just in case they were spotted in conjunction with the robberies and suspicions were raised.

The extra steps are necessary since the local police are still in Roman’s palms due to years of overgenerous contributions. But our time is coming. This latest long-awaited egg is finally hatching as Sean resumes digging at Horner Tech—inevitably coming up as empty as he did the first time he worked there.

To me, we’re continually beating a dead horse with that route. Any evidence of Roman’s cover-up was no doubt destroyed and swept up the night my parents perished in that fire. So, while Sean being back at Tech is a waste of time, all isn’t lost because his current station has him keeping an easy watch on Cecelia.

It’s Roman’s chokehold on her regarding her inheritance that’s making it hard for Sean to gain full access to the house. Roman berated her by email on day two for having Sean over, stating that visitors are to be kept to a minimum. We’ve decided not to press it because we don’t want him investigating the company she’s keeping.

In the last few days, I’ve made peace with the fact that Cecelia will be more of a fixture at our garage until the right opportunity strikes. That was until Sean decided to invite her tonight of all fucking nights—prolonging our delivery to the warehouse. Which is why we were having words before and after she rolled up.

For now, we have no choice but to allow her into our space and mix her in where we can. This means exposing her to all of us and keeps her curious, noticing too much for my comfort.

Which reminds me...

“You hear the news?” Jeremy boasts, stepping up to me as I eye the ski mask still hanging from his back pocket. “It’s every-fucking-where, and they don’t have shit.”

“The news,” I nod, “Yeah, okay, let’s start there.”

Jeremy’s brows pull in confusion, as do Peter’s, and Russell stiffens when I turn to him and hold my index finger at eye level.

“What are you doing?” Jeremy asks, darting his eyes between me and Russell, a goofy grin plastered on his face.

“Think of my finger as the news, Jeremy,” I utter, moving my pointer back and forth just in front of Russell’s nose. His eyes follow, his own expression confounded.

“Watching the news, Jeremy?” I snap, slowly running my finger back and forth along Russell’s line of sight.

“Yep,” Jeremy says. His quick reply is jovial, as if he’s in on my joke.

I run it past Russell one last time and hold it before sucker-punching Jeremy with my free fist.

“Mderfucker!” Jeremy grips his nose as Russell and Peter burst into surprised laughter.

“Da fuck, Dom?!” Jeremy groans, tone muddled, eyes watering.

“See what happens when you pay attention to the diversion instead of what’s going on in your own fucking reality ?”

Jeremy examines his bloody fingers. “You could have used a different tactic to get your point across, dickhead .”

“I could have,” I say, snatching the ski mask from his back pocket and holding it out to him to reiterate my point, “but now you know why I didn’t .”

Guilt-filled eyes lift to mine as he draws the conclusion intended.

Cecelia spotted the ski mask hanging out of his back pocket earlier while they were shooting pool and spoke up about it. A conversation I hadn’t gotten to have with him yet, and just made unnecessary. Even if Jeremy played it off expertly, it drew more suspicion from her.

“Sorry, man,” Jeremy grits out, “I fucked up.”

“You think?” I draw out in monotone.

“Won’t happen again, hand to God, man. My fucking bad.”

“Yeah, next time, leave the fucking uniform at home, especially when you didn’t even need it...and you know who the news is controlled by,” I remind him. “You’re better off believing conspiracy theorists at this point. At least there’s some merit there.”

“So, Tupac is alive and well and living in Cuba?” Jeremy snarks.

“You know better because they exterminate all the truth tellers.”

“You Nostradamus now?” Jeremy antagonizes due to his swelling nose and battered pride.

Stepping into his space as he retreats, I command his gaze. “Yeah, I’m a prophet, and here’s my prediction. When those doling out the selected forecast have everyone panicking about the price of an apple and a tank of gas so they can sneak more control through proposed legislation—having already taken freedoms fought for and won decades ago —we’re all fucked.” I palm his chest and lightly shove him. “That’s why we can’t get too cocky or parade around like idiots. There’s too much at stake.”

He nods, wiping his nose with his mask as I put him in a headlock and roughly knuckle his scalp. “And we already know they don’t have shit.” Breaking my hold, Jeremy looks over to me, eyes assessing as I give him due props. “Other than your shitty oversight, you did good.”

His expression lights up at my rare praise before I turn to Russell and Peter. “You too.”

Peter beams as he looks over the dollies full of merch being unloaded by recruits as Russell utters a low “thanks,” seemingly lost in his thoughts.

Pun intended, Russell is a rare bird who’s no doubt still mulling over my words. He’s made it clear his goal is to run his own chapter at some point, so he’s always paying careful attention to our words, actions, and strategies—especially mine. Of all our circle, he and I have the most in common.

Like me, Russell comes from a family of immigrants who came to the US to seek a piece of the illusion. His mother was born and raised Japanese; his father was a military brat raised on the Yokota Airbase. The second his dad was of age, he married Russell’s mother and brought her back to the States to seek his piece of the American dream. What Russell’s dad failed to realize—by not reading the fine print—is that if you gain sudden fortune of any kind, it better be in the multi -millions. Because once Uncle Sam is flagged, he’ll be coming for his portion, which is only a few percentage points short of the lion’s share. And if you spend your American Uncle’s money, he becomes a loan shark, and if you don’t pay, the reimbursement is freedom. The judge made an example out of his dad, leaving Russell fatherless for most of his formative years. We’re a lot alike in that Russell is also more of a man of action and rarely feels comfortable saying more than a few sentences unless he’s surrounded by us—his chosen family.

Looking over at Jeremy and Peter, I can feel the excitement of what’s brewing between us, all growing up in similar circumstances. Feral kids with no one looking for or calling us home while we did the best we could with our dealt hands.

Jeremy sniffs, his nostrils coated in red as remorse kicks in for the shit I just pulled. He’s bound to fuck up here and there, as we all are until he can fly solo. Same as Peter, whose fresh ink is in the midst of scabbing over.

Tyler enlisted Peter in a jail cell the cops had locked him in, in the hope it would scare him straight. He was an unprinted juvenile on the verge of a life of crime—which made him a prime candidate for us. What the cops didn’t know or care to recognize is that an empty stomach is a major fucking motivator. Peter had turned to thieving to keep the electricity on in the sad excuse of a trailer he resided in—which Tyler had relayed “had a gaping hole in the floor.” His short stint in burglary was an attempt to feed his infant sister after his abusive dad bailed.

Glancing between the three of them, I hate the fact that we have these particulars in common. Unlike Fatty, the birds surrounding me have major skin in the game. And it’s our job— my job —to ensure any mistakes made at this point are few and reversible, and I’ve barely had a spare second to put the time in with any of them since I got back to Triple.

“Get some rest. We’re just getting started,” I warn, pulling out my keys.

“Where you off to?” Jeremy asks, sucker punch forgiven.

“Shit to do.” More importantly, a bird to find.

“Hey, Dom,” Peter speaks up, hesitation evident before he lifts a shame-filled gaze to mine. “In our haul, I saw some coloring books and—”

“Take it,” I say, looking between the three of them. “Take whatever you want or need. Just make sure you log it with Denny.”

“Thanks, man,” Peter says, eyes alight, heading toward the compound with Jeremy. Russell hesitates before turning.

“Something on your mind, man?” I call to his back.

He stops his retreat into the building and glances back at me.

“I’m just...thanks, Dom.”

“It’s what we do,” I tell him. “Remember that if guilt-induced insomnia hits anytime soon.”

His lips lift. “Trust me. It won’t.”

“Good to hear.”

We share a grin before he turns to head inside. Watching him walk away to join the others in celebration, a sense of pride floods me.

It’s working.

We’re taking care of our own. It’s no longer planning and daydreaming about our future. We’re living it. All of the plotting and the effort to get to this point is proving worth it. Deciding a celebratory blunt is in order, and that there’s only one bird I want to share it with, I check my phone to see Sean hasn’t responded to my text. All hopes of celebrating with him dashed as I pull up the tracking app attached to his Nova to see he’s parked on some dead-end backroad.

No big fucking mystery as to what he’s doing—Cecelia.

Behind the wheel, I fire up my car as my phone rumbles, a text from Tyler filling my screen.

T: Got a bite on the line.

A little weight eases from my shoulders as I reply—at least Tyler’s focused.

By all means, reel it in.