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He turns over his shoulder, his hoodie covering the outline of his face. “And you have Saint. But you also have a duty.”
I clench my fist as our driver continues to drive us closer to the border. I jolt in my seat when the tires roll over the train tracks, directing us to the east side of Riverside. The bright lights and opulence of the west slowly fades out as the modesty of the east bleeds in.
I lean my head against the back of the chair. “Nate. Put on ‘Day of the Dead’ from Hollywood Undead.”
“My man!” Nate cheers, flicking through his phone and pushing play on the song, cranking it all the way up. Nate is right. I have Saint, but I’ve always had her and it’s never stopped me before from what I do on a weekly basis. If anything, she’s safe. She’s surrounded by some of the most feared individuals in not only the United States, but other countries, too, but there’s a reason why I’ve wanted to take my revenge slow, and not rush through it. Maybe stripping Josiah Garcia from Elijah will be a good thing. I always planned to take Elijah last, so he can watch as his family suffers. I want him to know that he’s the final of the Garcia line and I’m about to fucking cut it.
The car pulls up to a stop outside a quiet suburban-style house. The front porchlight is on, curtains drawn.
“Aside from my shit,” I say, running the cushion of my thumb over my bottom lip. “We do this for all the other people their decisions have affected throughout the years. This is deeper than me.”
“Since when do you give a fuck about other people?” Nate jokes, turning the music down.
“You don’t have to give a fuck about someone to know what happened to them is wrong, you fucker. And besides, you didn’t see the shit I did.”
They both remain silent. Eli turns in his seat to look over Hunter’s shoulder as the other G-Wagon pulls up behind us with the headlights cut. “Got to say, good to have the whole crew back.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Yeah, true. Even if only for one night.” In the Bugatti behind is Jase, Cash, Ace, Saint—the King Saint—and Chase. The whole fucking crew we started with. It feels good.
“Execution style, Brantley,” Bishop repeats beside me.
The corner of my mouth tips up in a smile.
“I mean it.”
I tap his leg. “Oh, I know you do.”
Swinging open my door, I slide out and make my way to the front of the house, pulling out my Glock from the back of my jeans.
“Bran!” Bishop snaps from behind me. I’m over the talking. Josiah Garcia isn’t who I want. Elijah is. I turn over my shoulder as footsteps thud from behind me.
I pull my hoodie over my head. “What?”
Bishop grinds his teeth. “He’s not here. Get back in the fucking car.” He turns to walk back to the SUV. “Fucking drive-by it is.”
I make my way back, cursing that his kill is going to be something easy and clean. I had every intention of carving my initials over his forehead, despite Bishop’s wishes.
Slamming the door once I’m back inside, I glare at Bishop. “How do you know?”
Nate flips his photo to my face. “Spotted by one of our eagles.” The eagles in The Kings are how we know the exact location of everyone. Yeah, technology is good, but it’s still not as reliable as the human eye.
“That’s on our side. What the fuck is he doing there?” I ask as the driver pulls us back out on the road and the Wagon behind us follows.
“Don’t know, but he won’t be there for long.”
It takes us fifteen minutes to get back on the west side, and as every second passes, I find myself more and more restless. Nate switches the song as Bishop throws his hoodie over his head and loads up his AK.
I crack my neck, my fingers tapping the door handle. This will for sure be the start of a fucking war, but I’m good with it. I’d kill and be killed before anything touched Saint.
“No witnesses.” I flick my gat around my fingers.
“Agreed,” Bishop murmurs as the car slows.
There are about five people standing in a parking lot, two cars parked on the curb. No doubt whatever they’re doing is shady as all fuck. About as shady as us rolling up to murder them all. “Wait and Bleed” by Slipknot spills from the speakers as my window rolls down. My mind moves in slow motion, as if it doesn’t want to miss a single fucking detail.
Bishop rests the AK on the windowsill and pulls the trigger. Bullet casings spray behind him, but not before I flick my hoodie off my head to expose my face, raise my gun up and point it right between the eyes of Elijah Garcia who stands right beside his father. Running my tongue over my teeth, I flash him a smirk, blowing him a kiss as my finger squeezes the trigger. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Blood explodes from his forehead as his body drops to the ground.
