Page 108 of Broken Warrior
“And we lie in wait for the game to begin.” Victor grins.
“Yeah,” I grunt with a nod. “Once Nick and Bruno come out and make sure I’m alone and unarmed, they’ll take me inside. Six of you will take up positions around the church at the various points of entry but hidden from view. Crunchy will stay in Brick’s truck just down the road and out of sight, keeping it running and ready to haul ass the minute someone shows up with James.”
“You aren’t really going in unarmed, are you, Birdeater?”
I barely refrain from rolling my eyes at Victor. “No. Since I’m dressed for the gym, I doubt they’ll feel the need to do a full pat down.”
“Not to mention you’re an intimidating fuck that most people don’t want to piss off.” Marbles smirks.
“Right.” Another eye roll I have to suppress. “I’m wearing a thigh holster with my SIG ready to go, and I can access it from the hole in my pocket when the opportunity presents itself.”
Victor smashes out his cigarette on the armrest as he leans forward, his nearly purple eyes scanning me. “It’s close to your junk, isn’t it? Tucked next to your Goliath dick and hidden by massive balls?” My jaw clenches as he nods in what I can only assume is approval. “Rather brilliant, since I doubt tweedle dee and tweedle dumbass will grab your crotch.”
I might just kill him tonight, too.
“Your signal?” Brick asks, his tone just as annoyed as I am, even through the phone.
“When I tell Valetti to go fuck himself.” It’s not very original but I can guarantee it’ll come up, more than once probably, but I plan to say it when I think we have a good chance of catching the bastard off guard.
Pope looks at me, looks harder than I expect, then narrows his gunmetal grey eyes. “Earpiece?”
“I’ll turn it on as soon as everyone gets out.”
Then they do.
The four men exit the SUV somberly, my cousin giving me a pleading look, an expression that basically begs for me to be safe, and once they all disappear into the woods and Crunchy hops into the driver’s side of Brick’s truck, I take a deep breath.
I’m coming, James.
I’m on my way and I am going to get you home.
I’m going to kill the boogeyman and make sure no one ever scares you again.
I’m on my way.
* * *
Ten minutes later,I’m climbing out of the Escalade with my heart in my throat, and slowly walking toward the front of the church.
The light coming from inside is dim, too low to make James comfortable at all but I’m sure Gino Valetti doesn’t give a shit about that. This really has nothing to do with that sweet little boy and everything to do with his mother that this bastard views as his property.
Tate told me Gino didn’t want James. Told me that he was angry she got pregnant at all and threatened to have their in-house doctor give her a hysterectomy because he was convinced she took out her IUD. She didn’t, she couldn’t, but those aren’t always effective and my dark angel fell into the minority. He beat her for that, for getting pregnant when she shouldn’t have been able to, and Valetti told Tate constantly that he hoped she lost the baby because of it. And when that didn’t happen—thank god—he used James as an accessory, as some sort of sick piece in his goal to take over the family business because his father was thrilled there was a male heir. After that, James was forgotten until he needed to be present, and Gino took to ignoring his existence as often as possible.
So, this is about Tate, not her son,my son.
She was Gino’s property for years, in his eyes she still is, and getting her back is the real motive because what he’ll view as her betrayal is also very much like having someone steal from him. Only Tatestoleherself, so she’s the one who will pay.
And part of me is worried that James will pay because of it, too.
“Stop right there.”
I slow my steps and stop in the middle of the decrepit sidewalk, raising my hands to show I’m unarmed and squinting as the sun starts to peek through the trees and shine on the idiots in front of me.
Nick is on the left, his tacky suit and gold chain making this asshole look like an Italian mobster cliche; Bruno on the right, looking more like a retired and out of shape linebacker than the lethal sniper he is. They both have .45s pointed at me, both of them walking toward me at a very nonchalant pace, and when Nick stops maybe a foot or two in front of me, he points his gun right between my eyes.
“You’re in the wrong place, my friend.” His tone is cold and hollow as he motions for Bruno to pat me down. “Could have avoided all of this if you’d just sent the bitch.”
My jaw clenches but I keep my mouth shut. He’ll get what he deserves for talking about Tate that way but right now isn’t the time.
