I put the damn call in anyway.
“Boss?”
“Where are they?”
“They were about there, just off the freeway last time I checked in.”
“They’re not fucking here.” My eyes keep looking at Quinn, another lungful of smoke being drawn in. “Phone them now on another line while I wait.” He does. No fucking answer. “Try another one of the boys.” Again, no answer. “And again.” I wait for that answer with bated breath, wait for it to give me one fucking reason not to kill this cunt where he stands. There was only him and Nathan who knew what was happening. Only they knew the route in and where from, the timing, the tripled amounts, and the plan. All the Yakuza knew was this dock.
Again, there’s no fucking answer on that line either.
Narrowed eyes turn to slits as I watch Quinn watching me and end the call. That’s a lot of my goods just disappeared into a cloud of unanswered calls. It doesn’t matter that two thirds of it was his. He’ll make about five million off the third that was mine and re-run his own goods if he’s organised this shit.
“You got anything to say to me, Cane?” There’s a moment of confusion on his brow, but it’s replaced at fucking speed when he catches on to what I’m saying.
“Really?”
“Where’s my run?”
“Fuck you,” he snarls out, pushing his gun into his waistband again. “Drop your damn paranoia and think. Where were they last?”
Still I stare, unable to gauge whether he’s on side or off. My feet travel around him a little, eyes searching for signs of treachery. He’s like a block of goddamn stone, one who’s riling himself up for a fucking explosion by the sound of his shortening breaths.
“You’re fidgeting, Cane. Why?”
The goddamn right hook comes out of nowhere, sending me backwards half a foot. My jaw stretches once I’ve righted myself, hand reaching to rub that fucking sting away as I look into the blackness of the port. The footsteps of my boys clatter, all of them running in from where I put them earlier. I look up and see Quinn reaching for his phone, a huff coming from his mouth.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Vico. Get your mind in gear.” He brings the phone to his ear, glaring at every one of my men who have come down from their posts, then returns that glare to me. “And don’t think about retaliating until I get Nate up into a chopper. You wanna get this shit between us out of the way—wait.”
I do, barely, body still vibrating from the impact of that hit. Cunt. He mutters something for a few minutes, eyes downcast and then flicking around at my boys again.
“Yeah. Access into the Feds from there, use their line of sight. It’s not here and should be by now,” he says into the phone, bringing that glare back at me again. “I’ll deal with this dick while you do that.”
Five fucking seconds I manage to give him before I’m moving, all hell coming out of every bit of distrust I’ve got. I slam into him, shoulder barging the dick backwards and hand reaching for his goddamn neck. He turns in my hold, spinning himself out of the way and grabbing onto the left hook I’m sending at him, pinning me with his arms.
“You’re being a dick, Vico,” he snarls, using his weight to shunt me around. “Think.” Thinking is fucking gone, lost in a mist of rage that keeps feeding me. I grunt in his hold, arm heaving away from his to get a goddamn punch in. He blocks, moving me again, but not quickly enough to see the uppercut coming at his chin. Spittle flies from his mouth, the hit sending him sideways into one of my boys. They grab at him, pushing him back towards me as they jeer.
The whole fucking thing makes me bounce on my heels, a wry smile coming regardless of whether or not it should. Feels fucking good, interesting. My neck cricks out, jacket being tossed from my back at the same time.
“You’re a cunt, Cane.” My hands wave at him, signaling him back into me. “Let’s see what Chicago’s streets have to offer.” His fingers wipe at his lips, blood pushing up the side of his cheek as he scowls at me. “How’s that shoulder?”
I’m over at him again before he has a chance to answer, two punches directed straight at it. He grunts and turns back at me, another volley of hits coming from his own power. I smile into it all, twisting, letting the punches come with no fucking care for the end result. I’m pissed. Aggravated. And this cunt is as good a fighter as I’ve been up against for a long time.
I don’t know or care how long it goes on for. I’m immersed in the back streets of New York and dirty fucking dealings again. It’s all I can see, all I can feel. Years gone by, Tony’s dead eyes, Hope’s split lip and blood. Wild and vicious, brutal beginnings. Evil endings. All of it comes at me from his hands and what I deliver back.
He holds his hand up at one point, eyes directed at mine.
“The fuck, Vico?”
“What?” I snarl out, bouncing as I back off a step or two.
“The deal?”
Fuck the deal.
I reel back into him again, not knowing why I’m damn well doing it anymore. Pain is what I want. I want hate and revenge embedded so far into me I see nothing else. The puddles below splash and shuffle, our feet dragging through them as I keep getting glances of his features in the gloom. Dark nights, darker days. Memories of my father showing me how to kill, how to keep power over the masses. I reach for my gun, fingers grabbing for his chin and turning him into me as I lock my arm around his throat.
“Did you do this?” I growl out, tucking him tighter to me and using all my weight to keep the fucker in my grasp. He grunts and tries to pull away, hands reaching for my arm around his neck. My knee digs into the back of his, pushing him down to the floor as my other leg kicks his balance from him completely. Still he fights on, hoping. There’s fuck all hope here now. None. It’s not until I shove the gun against his temple that he stills entirely, though. “Did you? Did you fuck me over?”
