Chapter 30

" W hat have you done?" the bald, greasy fucker drawls, cocking his wide hip against the doorway. He crosses his tattooed arms and lifts a split brow, as if he's actually waiting for me to answer.

Against my will, my frazzled mind runs through all the shit I could have possibly been spotted doing in the last ten minutes. My throat tightens around nothing, a ghost of the tracker nearly choking me. I fight the urge to check again for cameras. I'd been pretty damn sure there weren't any.

But what if…

Even if there had been, I'd been discrete. And judging by their poor fighting skills in the parking lot, this pack of feral dogs doesn't have more than two brain cells to rub together.

No. He's probably just testing me, toying with me.

"You've pissed someone off real good, haven't you? Boss has a special punishment set up just for you." He licks his lips and his pupils flare as if he's already imagining all the horrors they're about to inflict on me. "Gonna fuck you up, little boy."

A shiver of revulsion crawls across my skin, but I hide it. Of course, they would send the sick fuck to my cell. I barely resist rolling my eyes.

"Oh, goody," I drawl, smirking lazily. "Can't wait."

He scoffs, settling deeper into his casual pose as his eyes trail a disgusting path down my body. "You got no idea where you are, do ya, kid?"

His infatuation with my size and referring to me as way younger than I am doesn't go unnoticed by me.

Like I said: sick fuck.

"I have an idea," I murmur, narrowing my eyes as I inspect all the tattoos he has on display.

Three in and I can deduce I'm still in the bay. He's definitely a fan of our state. I tilt my head, noticing a Reaper tattoo. Why does that look so familiar? I brush it off when I spot what I'm looking for.

So, I was right. These are Augustus' trash goblins. The pieces of shit he hides under the radar to do his dirty work. I've been piecing together how he's gotten so many things by us for a while now.

The Diablos are a front. A showroom.

They're the street gang Augustus created to flex his power for the locals. To scare business owners into paying ridiculous tithes. Money they can't afford to part with. The monsters that go bump in the night, keeping everyone in line.

I bet if I lift this asshole's shirt, I'll find a tat of the Los Diablos sigil. But on his left forearm, he bears a second mark. One I've seen popping up more frequently amongst our enemies. Quan had it. The men we killed at Dolores' bakery were etched with the same sigil. They all work for Augustus, but they're not part of the club.

They're his Clowns.

I scoff as I take in his tattoo. It's a clown mask that's permanently smiling in a creepy as fuck way. I know without a shadow of a doubt that Gus is laughing at us.

It's a stupid tattoo, and I hate it.

But there's also a part of me that wonders what else he was able to get past us. If he was able to keep an entire division of the club underground for so long, what other pieces could he have moving in the background? Connections beyond the Broadway Boys and the Diaz Cartel?

Instead of letting my anxious thoughts spill out across my face, I push my shoulders back and widen my stance, clasping my hands behind my back in nonchalance. Doesn't he know you should never stand in such a pose? Arms crossed over your chest lengthen your response time. Standing off balance makes you an easier target.

But it's the cockiness that will really fuck you over.

I may be a small guy, but I could have this piece of shit flat on his back in five seconds.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" he snarls, flexing his fists.

My eyes slide down his tubby frame, and I let my lip curl in honest disdain. "Not much."

"You little motherfucker," he growls, shoving away from the door. I'm expecting it when he barrels into the tiny cell and slams his chest into mine. I don't even stumble, righting myself in a single step.

But when he sends his scarred fist into my gut, I can't stifle my reaction. A groan slips free, and I barely catch myself before doubling over.

He chuckles, sending another shot into my kidneys. Spittle flies from my mouth from the weight of his punch.

"That all you got?" I hiss, breathing through the pain.

I force my shoulders back instead of curling in on myself the way I want to. I can't be more vulnerable than I already am.

"You don't know who the fuck you're messing with!" he snarls, shoving me against the wall. This time, it's me who laughs.

"I know exactly who I'm dealing with," I rasp, shooting him a haughty look. "The trash. The lackey." I grin. "The disposable one."

Fuck only knows why I'm antagonizing this piece of shit. Maybe because I'm pissed and scared, needing a reprieve from the chaos swirling through my mind.

His fist comes up, and I watch as it arcs back, aiming for my face. Fuck. This is going to suck. Just before he can send it sailing into a destructive path, someone barks out a word that has him freezing.

"?Detente!" Stop.

The man's eyes widen as he stills. There's only a few inches between our bodies, but I swear, I can feel his heartbeat kick up at the unexpected voice. Or maybe it's mine.

There's something about the voice. It's cold. Empty.

And with just one word, I know everything I need to know. He's not a lackey. He's not disposable.

He's the man in charge, and with that comes a lethality you don't want to fuck with.

The guy in front of me drops his arm, and I watch as his tan skin grows pale. His throat bobs as he steps back and stands tall.

"Perdón, jefe." Sorry, boss.

Ah, I was right. I move away from the wall and turn to face the newcomer, preparing myself for whatever I might find. I stop short when I meet his cold eyes. My breath stalls in my lungs, and I have to force myself to breathe through the sudden burst of fear.

Everything about him is unrecognizable. He's not too tall or too short. While his body is broad, there's a fluidness to him that tells me he could easily take to the shadows. His face isn't jarring or scarred. He doesn't have any visible tattoos. His hair is dark, but not black. His skin isn't noticeably tan or pale.

The most notable thing about the man is his eyes. They're icy blue, and with just one look, I can see every one of his demons.

Jesus fucking Christ. Who is this asshole?

"Go," he murmurs, his voice quiet enough that I struggle to decipher his accent, but there's something odd about it. My brows furrow. He flicks his chin at the other man. "Boss needs you in the big fuckers cell."

Big fucker? Could it be Nyx?

The first man's shoulders drop as he huffs a sigh.

"What the fuck did he do now?" he practically whines. I don't tear my eyes away from the newcomer, watching every nuance of his expression. "Kill another guard? Why do I have to go—"

"Cállate!" Quiet.

The dumbass freezes again, staring at the cold man for a long second before practically sprinting from the room. I nearly roll my eyes, but refuse to be vulnerable, even for a second.

Our eyes remained locked as the other man's footsteps clatter down a metal sounding hallway. I take in every bump, every echo, every step, committing it all to memory.

"He was right." The man before me cocks his head slowly. "You're intelligent."

It's not a question, so I don't answer. I do, however, finally detect the piece of his accent I'd been missing before. He's Colombian.

The delineation between dialects is slight, whether because he's spent many years blending in, or because he's just that good. But now I hear it—the way his vowels linger a bit longer, softer, compared to the sharper, more clipped tones of the lackey. There's a rhythm to Colombian Spanish, almost musical, where the words seem to flow together with a certain ease.

"And you're more than you let on," I state. If we're making assumptions, I have a few of my own.

I scan his body. He's wearing a black long-sleeved shirt that's pulled down to his wrists. His hands and throat are free from tattoos, but that doesn't mean they don't exist.

Still…

"You're not one of them."

It's a risk. I shouldn't be saying anything. Not when he looks like he could gut me in five seconds flat. But there's something in the twitch of his lip, the slow beat of his pulse, his casual but confident pose. He's not here to throw around his weight or threaten me. He knows he could kill me easily. He's sure, not cocky.

He's different from any other person I've ever met where Augustus is concerned, and that intrigues me as much as it scares me.

He nods once and steps into the cell, letting the padded door close softly behind him.

"How did you figure it out?" he asks quietly, sliding his hands into his jean pockets. It's a casual pose, and for some reason, I believe it. "No one else here has discovered me yet."

"Your accent," I murmur. He's tried to mask it, but the signs are clear enough if you know what to listen for. And in this line of work, picking up on the little things can mean the difference between life and death. "Columbia?"

His eyes flare, losing some of their iciness. He jerks a sharp nod.

"Why are you here?" I ask before he can change his mind about trusting me—if that's what he's doing. Maybe he's just unburdening his secrets because he knows I'll be dead before he's gone.

He shrugs. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"To kill me," I state bluntly. "Or help me." Because there's no alternative.

The man stares at me for a long moment, his gaze taking in far more than I'm comfortable with.

"Things are going to become very…. unpleasant for you soon."

I scoff, gesturing to the worn and cold padded cell where my vomit lays in a corner. "As opposed to my stellar accommodations."

His lip twitches, but it's gone so quick, I could have imagined it. "Things can always get worse."

"I'm aware." I nod. "Who are you?"

He turns, taking in the room. I don't miss the easy way he gives me his back. It's a sign of stupidity or strength. I'm betting on the latter. He's not worried about me in the slightest.

Wish I shared the sentiment.

"I am whoever I need to be," he says quietly as he runs his fingers over the dingy wall. He pulls his hand back quickly and wipes it down his jeans. I file that tidbit away for later. A germaphobe.

"To my woman, I am her savior. Her king. Especially in the bedroom." He smirks at me over his shoulder. "To my family, I'm the son who destroyed the empire they turned my country red to build. My men call me Boss out of respect, but I trust them. They're my equals. And to these people, I am the one who is called in to incite terror. To take lives. To them, I am El Segador —the Reaper."

"The tattoos are for you," I mutter, swallowing thickly. My mind is still hazy from the drugs and panic, but the details are coming together slowly.

His lip curls. "Fear breeds loyalty. These men see their leader failing, weakening. They're turning toward the player they fear the most." His shoulders lift as if he can't be bothered to care. "I didn't ask for them to brand themselves, nor do I desire it."

"Are you saying there's dissension in the Diablos ranks?" My head pounds and I pop my neck to relieve some pressure, but it doesn't help. "How can Gus be so blind?"

"Men like him only see what they wish to see," he drawls. "He believes himself to be untouchable, and it will ultimately be his downfall." His jaw tenses. "The men who have fallen from his ranks will also fall at the tip of my scythe. If they only follow me out of fear, they're not the type of soldiers my army requires. My men respect me, so they will fall for me. Augustus' lackeys are just that."

"They only look out for themselves." Something I've noticed.

Gus' soldiers are young gang members. They're not willing to die for his cause. They won't step in front of a bullet for him. And if they think it will save them, they'll turn on him just as easily.

"And who are you to Augustus? Do you work for him?" I ask.

"Augustus Luna may believe me to be nothing more than his bitch, his hired blade. A ghost to tell tales about. A man who reaps the souls he's too afraid to touch." He spins, flashing me a too-white smile, but it quickly drops. "I am all of those things and nothing at all."

"But why?" The pounding in my head intensifies as I try to work through his riddles.

"I am here because I made it that way," he says coldly. "I am in his world because I shaped his existence. And when the time comes, I'll be the one to end it."

Irritation burns through me and I step forward, getting in his face. "Who. Are. You?" I hiss.

He merely clicks his tongue. "You have a temper. You'll need to learn to collar it if you wish to survive and get back to your woman."

I stumble backward at the mention of Ella, and his brows lift in victory.

"Ah, there it is," he mutters, jerking a nod. "Remember what you're fighting for, because soon enough, you'll be begging me to reap your soul."

I choke back the words that desperately want to escape, focusing on the tidbit of information he just dropped.

"Is she okay? Is she alive?" I swallow roughly. "Is she here?" And where the hell is here? I hold that question back. For now.

He gives me a sympathetic look that almost seems genuine. "I don't know where your girl is, but she's not here." Relief has my shoulders dropping, but his next words make me rigid all over again. "Augustus is looking for her. He's desperate. Nothing more than a madman who's lost his senses. He will stop at nothing to get to her. It doesn't matter where she is, she's not safe."

"What does he want with her?" I run a shaking hand through my hair and start to pace. "Is it to get back at us for fucking him over? Does he intend to kill her?"

My stomach revolts at the thought. Did we do this?

"Unfortunately, that is something I do not know," he murmurs. I spin to face him but the room tilts on its axis. I fall, catching myself on the wall. Everything is blurry, and I suck in a labored breath as my knees go weak.

What the fuck?

My head lolls to the side as I slide down the wall. I watch as the man slides a syringe into his pocket. He gives me a pitying look and crouches before me.

"I can't tell you much, but you need to know that this conversation never happened," he says sharply. "In just a moment, you're going to pass out. My men are going to retrieve you, and we're going to go back to following Augustus' orders before he grows suspicious."

He reaches out and runs his thumb over one of my cuff-links.

"I really hope you know what you're doing, Alec Hendrix, because in the days that come, you're going to be tested beyond your wildest imagination."

"W-what do y-you…." I slur, but the words won't come out.

"Your brothers are here," he whispers. "They're alive, but they're fighting their own battles, and I worry your demons might win." His palm collides with my cheek as my head falls and I jolt awake. "They're coming for you, Stone. Hold it together."

The last thing I hear before slipping into unconsciousness is a thought I won't soon forget.

"She's going to need all of you whole if you wish for her to survive this war."