Chapter Three

Fighter pressed a hand to the throbbing in his chest where Brick had landed a hell of a punch. He was going to be sore for days. Through the side window of the police car, he caught sight of his men being loaded into a police bus.

Not him though, he had the privilege or perhaps disadvantage of sitting in the back seat of SWAT Commander Smith’s vehicle.

“I would have thought you’d learned your lesson.”

“Apparently not,” Fighter said, leaning his head back against the seat. He closed his eyes for a long moment, the adrenaline of wanting to kill Tyler Brick III had faded for now, leaving him bone weary.

“Looks like you hurt him bad.”

The asshole had it coming and Fighter didn’t regret it one iota.

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“He could press charges,” Smith said impatiently.

“He could.”

But it wasn’t likely. They’d never gone that far before, even when Fighter had sent the steak knife into Brick’s side at the charity event, the man hadn’t pressed charges. “And even if he does…like I said, I don’t give a fuck.”

He hated Tyler Brick with every fiber of his being.

Just by breathing, that motherfucker had been on his nerves for the past six months. Now Brick had snatched one of the job bids from beneath his feet and he wanted payback.

“You’re both in the same business. Why not work together instead of this war?” Smith asked, putting the police car in drive.

“Because he thinks he owns the fucking world,” Fighter muttered, turning his head to gaze out the window. He caught sight of Brick being loaded into an ambulance.

Good!

He hoped the asshole was laid up for a long time.

“Fighter!” Two hours later, the sound of his best friend and assistant’s tear-clogged voice drew him from his light doze. He stood, walking to the bars of the eight-by-twelve cell and closed his hands over Gabby’s where she had gripped the bars. Her dark eyes were scared and her cheeks tear-stained.

“It’s okay. I’ll be out of here in no time.”

“What do I do if Cook shows up?” Gabby asked.

Fighter clenched his jaw. He’d fucking needed the money from the job Brick had stolen. Now, he was going to have to bargain with Allen Cook for more time. “Go home. I’ll have Bishop close the place until I get released.”

“I can’t! You need the money to keep the place going.”

“It’ll only be for a few hours at the most.” He squeezed her hands. “I’ll be home by dark.”

Forty-eight hours later, Fighter was still sitting in jail.

The bleach and piss that filled the air threatened to bring up bile in his throat. Thankfully, he hadn’t had to share the cell with anyone. The scarred metal bench beneath his ass was filled with gang signs and phone numbers etched into the gray paint and his tailbone had long since gone numb. He rested back against the concrete wall and rolled his head to gaze at the cell door when he heard voices.

His attorney, Carl Withers, stood on the other side of the bars along with Mark Johnson. The cop, who had brought both men to the cell, walked away.

“Your bail was denied,” Withers said, adjusting the jacket of his pinstriped suit.

Fighter pressed his teeth together and stared at the man’s sweating face and tired eyes.

“Why?”

“Charges are being pressed.”

“What charges?”

“Trespassing.”

‘It’s a fucking open business lobby,” Fighter said through his teeth.

“Causing a disturbance…”

That shit wouldn’t deny him bail, he squinted at Withers.

The lawyer swallowed, pulling at the knot of his tie.

“And?” The word came through Fighter’s teeth.

“Assault and attempted murder.”

That fucking asshole.

“Get Brick on the phone,” Fighter ordered.

“I can’t. Mr. Brick hasn’t regained consciousness.”

Fighter scowled at the lawyer, wondering if he was being punked right now. Yeah, he’d wanted to kill Brick, but there was no way in hell the fight in Cobalt’s lobby had done that. He hadn’t even used all of his skills, none of them had. There was no fucking way he’d injured Brick that bad.

“Go to the hospital and find out what you can about Brick’s condition.” Fighter told Mark, who’d yet to say a word. “I want to know what the fuck he’s playing at.”

“You got it.” Mark gave a bobbing nod and grabbed the lawyer’s arm to pull the man along as he left.

Okay, so maybe, and that was a big fucking maybe, he shouldn’t have gone to Cobalt’s office when he’d been so pissed off.

All he’d wanted was to give Brick a piece of his mind, but when the receptionist with her perky tits and entitled tweezed brows told him that Brick had given the order that he wasn’t allowed on the premises…

Fighter had seen red.

Before he’d realized, two of Cobalt’s men were there and his Suwan Guardians had come in ready for blood. He rubbed a hand down his face. Of course, his Guardians would attack—nobody touched him and came away unscathed.

“Fuck.” He rubbed at his chest.

When he got out of here and when Brick woke up, he was going to knock the asshole the fuck out.

The man was a thorn in his side.

All Brick cared about was money and power. Not that he gave a shit about what Brick fucking cared about. He’d long since quit caring what anybody in this world thought about him. That was probably because of the dysfunctional shit of a family he’d had growing up. He was surprised his mother hadn’t called Mark by now. Or maybe she had instead called Bishop and tore into him. Of course, Bishop wouldn’t repeat her vile filth to him. His right-hand man and best friend took care of him like that.

He rolled to his feet and began a slow walk back and forth in the cell to keep his muscles from getting cold. He’d need to come up with a different plan in order to get enough business to stay afloat.

What he really needed to do was stop bidding jobs here in Colorado. Cobalt was just too fucking big and had way more money for him to come up against.

Starting next week, he’d search for jobs that would take them out of state. Of course, that would increase their overhead, but other than that, he couldn’t think of a fucking thing. He was used to it though, hacking his way through life with his own two hands, and Tyler Brick could go fuck himself.