I know he wants me to show fear. To show him my weakness. But if I’m going to die, I’m not going out like that. I’m going to follow Prophet’s example and be defiant right to the end. I had gotten back on my knees; I stiffen my spine and glare at the cartel boss even though my heart is hammering so hard I feel like it’s going to burst out of my chest and land at his feet.
“Do it,” I say, impressed that my voice barely wavers.
Emiliano gives me a vicious smirk. “What makes you think I want to kill you?”
“The bodies all around me make a pretty compelling case.”
He stares at me, his eyes cold and reptilian. It takes a Herculean effort for me to not quiver with fear or puke all over his shoes right now. But I’m determined to go out like a man. I’m not giving him shit. I clench my fists behind my back and say a silent prayer, trying to make peace with my impending death.
“Mr. Holt was the only one who owed me a blood debt. I have no desire to kill you. What’s your name?”
“Just call me Volt.”
“Very well, Volt. As I said, I have no desire to kill you. You have not done anything to me personally,” he says.
“Beaker and Axle didn’t do anything to you personally either,” I point out.
“This is true. My men can sometimes be… excitable. And I apologize for that,” he says. “But believe me when I say that I will be satisfied if the killing ends here. I’ve got too much blood on my hands as it is. I’m not going to kill you, Volt.”
His words send a wave of relief washing through me, and I have to keep from letting out a long shaking breath. But I know this act of mercy doesn’t come without strings. I look up at him, still trying to maintain my outward expression of defiance and disdain.
“And what is it you want in return?” I ask.
“Simple. I want the Dark Pharaohs to be nothing more than a memory.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Disband your MC. Abandon your clubhouse, strip yourselves of your patches, and scatter to the winds. You’ve lost all rights and privileges to Blue Rock Bay,” he says. “The town is mine now. You have thirty days to dissolve your club and get out.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“If, on the thirty-first day, the MC is still up and running, I’ll take that as a declaration of war,” he says. “And I will act accordingly.”
“You actually expect us to disband?”
“That’s your choice. You can either disband, or you can die,” Emiliano says. “I don’t want to go to war with you. I personally abhor all the killing I’ve had to do to get to this point. But make no mistake, I will continue killing until I get what I want.”
“And what is it you want, Zavala?”
“The extinction of your kind. The extinction of the MCs as a whole,” he says. “And a clear corridor to distribute that runs the entire length of the West Coast.”
“Yeah, that’s not too ambitious or anything.”
Emiliano quirks a grin at me then gestures to the men gathered around. One of his men walks over to me and slices through the plastic cuffs around my wrist before he heads over to the vans with the rest of the sicarios. Zavala’s driver opens the rear door to his SUV. Before he climbs in though, he turns back to me.
“Thirty days, Volt. And not one second more,” he says. “Do the smart thing and get out of town. All of you.”
He climbs into the back of the SUV, and the driver shuts the door, the smoked glass keeping me from seeing him, but I have the feeling he’s staring at me all the same. The vans follow the SUV out of the warehouse, leaving me there on my knees surrounded by the bodies and blood of my friends. My brothers. And as I look over at Prophet, staring into his wide lifeless eyes, the tears start to flow.
I bury my face in my hands and let them come. I haven’t cried like this since I was a kid, but I have no problem with letting myself sob for my loss. For the club’s loss. Losing Prophet is going to rip a hole in the MC—one that will never be truly filled—and maybe Zavala is going to get what he wants after all.
Chapter Two
Fallon
I step back and look at the canvas in front of me. It’s good, but it’s not great. Not yet. It still need some work. It still needs… something. I can’t figure out what that something is though. I move to the right and look at it from a different angle then over to the left and do the same. From a technical aspect, it’s good. Perhaps even gallery-worthy. But it’s not the kind of piece that’s going to hit somebody in the gut and knock the wind out of them—metaphorically speaking, of course. And that’s what I always aim for with my art—that gut-wrenching, visceral, emotional reaction.
I sigh and set my brush into the cleaning solution. I need to give this a little time to simmer in my mind. Maybe a little time and distance from it will give me the perspective I need to figure out what’s missing. I take my smock off and hang it on the peg by the door then walk out of my small studio and into my loft-style apartment. Frustrated, I walk over to the kitchen and grab a bottle of apple juice out of the refrigerator and take a long swallow.
