Chapter 25—Bass
I’m awake. Been awake for a while, even though it’s my turn to catch a few hours of sleep. The boys and I have been doing this since we landed on Russian soil. Ivan has to know we’re coming, but we’re hoping the fact that we chartered the aircraft and got wheels up less than twenty-four hours after his attack would be enough of the surprise we need.
We got here quick, but this is the hard part. The waiting. The intel gathering. We didn’t plan to go to war against the Russian, but he decided that on his own. He made a mistake. He thought it would be easy to come in and destroy something he knew very little about. Operation Hell Hound might be easy to find if you’re looking for someone to do something for you. Doesn’t mean we let you know what all we do. We sure as hell don’t advertise how many brothers can be called at a moment’s notice and be ready to go.
Waiting can be good. Gathering intel, finding weaknesses, seeking those willing to sell out—all good things. But with waiting also comes time to think. And despite what anyone says, thinking ain’t always a good thing. You might start out thinking about the mission, but you end up thinking about the whys and who’s. And for me, that keeps leading me back to Milly.
Seeing her in that hospital bed almost did me in. I’ve seen a lot of men and women get hit before. More times thannot, it was in a combat setting. Never saw one who I wanted to be there for when they woke up. Till her.
I don’t know much about her current status. She was stable when we left, but I knew General said there were some complications in surgery. Don’t have a clue what’s happening, other than Flint confirmed she’s still alive. We’re keeping intel between us and the Hounds at home limited. Ivan’s checking our chatter. We know it. Don’t want to show our hand too soon.
“Bass.”
I open my eyes and look over at Kooper, who pokes his head into the room we’ve all been sharing. We rented a one-bedroom vacation apartment for the four of us. We chose the one that had a separate bedroom, but it’s still small. It’s doesn’t have much in the way of amenities, but it has one hell of a view. Mainly, we can see the lobby of a building a few streets over with the long scope we’re using to track Ivan and his men’s movements. Even the elusive Russian wife who Milly told me about.
“Got visitors,” he says.
I sit up, planting my boots on the ground. Learned long ago to sleep at the ready—no time to tie your laces when bullets are being fired at you. I drag my hands over my face, pushing the sleep as far off as any good rubdown will do. Standing, I stretch before I grab both of my guns off the night table, securing one in my hip holster and the other in my shoulder holster.
Walking into the main area, I’m met with both a friendly face and a familiar-looking one.
“Mickey, what the fuck are you doing here?” I grab onto the Irish fucker who became like another brother to me overthe last year when he and I set up the training gig in North Dakota. He was on loan from his own chapter like I was, but he decided to stay and not go back home the last I knew.
“Heard you fuckers could use an extra hand. Casper also wanted me to relay some shit to you, and I figured it’d be better to do it in person.” He runs his hand through his spiked auburn mohawk in his normal fashion, and I just about crack a smile. Having friends and brothers at your back is amazing. Having them being one and the same is even better.
“Is he the message?” Domino asks as he points to the other person, who also has a mohawk, but his blue hair stands taller and is sticking up in a spike a mile high like a fucking punk rocker. He’s also dressed in a suit.
“Fuck no. This is a stowaway.” Mickey’s Irish accent is stronger when he’s agitated, and it’s clear that today is not one of his better days.
“Nah, I’m a gift,” the guy says with an easy smile as he passes us all, heading to the fridge.
“Ain’t falling for some damn Trojan horse,” Kooper says as he leans on the doorjamb and crosses his arms.
Thegiftchuckles at that as he grabs a beer. I look at the clock and notice it’s six in the morning here, but I guess if he’s from America—and based off his lack of Russian accent, he is—then it’s the drinking hour.
“Sis did say you lot were smart, but I had my doubts.”
His words have me taking a step toward him as he chugs our beer. “What sister?”
The burp he gives after crushing the can in his hand is almost impressive, and any other time, I would say something. But not when he’s who I think he is. “Milly. You know,the one you’re all here to avenge, and what not? I’m Tommy Leone, the youngest Leone brother and the best. Or so the ladies tell me.”
“Bloke can’t shut up about it neither, now can you? So, you said your piece. Now sit down, shut the fuck up, and let me talk. You ain’t done nothing but yapped in my ear since we got on that damn plane.” Mickey points at Tommy, then the couch in the corner.
Surprisingly, the mafia kid goes there. Not without flipping off the rest of us in the process, of course.
Prick.But his antics just make me think of his sister and how she would have done the same thing. They look so much alike that I’ve got to think they’re twins or something, but I’m not going to ask. What Milly and I have, or had, was meant to just be a passing thing. Nothing more than getting ourselves off. I’m not about to point out that she has the same small mole behind her ear, but hers is on the right, while he has one on the left. I also ain’t about to think about her more than I already am. I have enough problems sleeping as it is. Don’t need to be trying to rub one out in the shower with just thoughts of her moans and screams when I push her over the edge and she begs me for more.
Domino, Kooper, and I move in close to the bar where Mickey’s sitting. The prospect is in the single chair opposite the couch that Tommy is lying down on and just watches him. Everyone can hear us—the damn place is the size of a shoebox—but he knows he’s only here for backup, not to make plans unless he sees something we don’t.
“Sorry to hear about Law,” Mickey starts, and I look at my boys before I give him a chin lift. We hold each other’sstare for longer than necessary, but it shows the respect we had for our former president.
“Thanks,” I say for the group. “What’ve you got?” No need to pussyfoot around. We’re here for a reason, after all.
“Mad Max sends his love.” He pulls out a thumb drive from his pocket and slides it across the table.
Kooper grabs it and puts it into the computer we have close by. Not much counter space, but we seem to have used every surface for either our computers, communication links, or maps. Nothing wrong with going old school, especially when Google Maps can only get you so far when the blueprints of the original building schematics have been wiped from all systems. Ivan knows how to get his footprint off the web, but he’s an idiot to think no one will go look shit up the old-fashioned way.
While Koop opens the drive, I ask the simple question. “What’s on it?”
