Can’t throw any more Molotov cocktails with melted stumps for hands.
The other two are still out there, but I’ve got a crew closing in on them. It’s only a matter of time.
I’m about to tell Malone to mind his own fucking business when the gym door swings open and Dez struts in like he owns the place.
In his mind he owns the world; it’s his oyster and everybody else is only a side character.
My manager’s wearing an alligator-skin suit and pair of loafers, decked out in gold chains around his neck and a glittering watch on his wrist.
Truthfully, he resembles a pimp who got lost on his way to a music video shoot.
Malone’s expression sours. “The hell is he doing here?”
Dez ignores him, strolling past the ring and other sweaty men in the middle of their training. He’s headed straight for me, black shades disguising his eyes.
But I know when we make eye contact because he spreads his arms wide and flashes his signature toothy smile.
“There he is! My champion!” He claps his hands together as if about to dine on a feast. “Glad to finally seeyour head in the game, Kill. Was starting to worry you’d forgotten about our little date with The Tank.”
“How could I? It’s being promoted every-fucking-where.”
“Good, good. Because word on the street is Thompson’s been training like a man possessed. Six hours a day, seven days a week. He wants that championship bout bad, and he’s willing to go through you to get it.”
“Kill’s been on it,” Malone chimes in stubbornly. “The Tank’s all muscle and no technique. Dumb as a box of rocks too.”
“That may be. But his training regimen hasn’t been what it was in the past,” Dez says. “There’s no denying Kill’s got to bring it. You think you’re ready to go toe-to-toe with a force like The Tank?”
A rush of anger hits me as I shoot my manager a glare and then decide to answer him the only way I know how.
I turn back to the punching bag and throw a right hook loaded with the rage and frustration that’s been building inside me for days.
The impact reverberates up my arm, through my shoulder, into my chest.
The chain snaps.
The bag goes flying across the gym, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that makes several men nearby look up in surprise and stare. Malone swears under his breath.
I turn back to Dez, rolling my shoulders.
“Does that answer your stupid fucking question?”
For once, my flashy manager doesn’t have a comeback.
I wrap up training at the gym and head over to our warehouse in Red Hook. Sean called to let me know the last two shitheads who burned down the Banshee have finally beencaught. He and the rest of the crew I put up to finding them finally tracked them down in Brownsville. They were in the middle of a shakedown when our buttonmen cornered them and took them by surprise.
I arrive at the warehouse to find them tied to poles, their faces squashed and bruised from the beating they’ve already received.
Unluckily for them, it’s only the beginning.
Like their other deformed comrades, they’re about to wish they never crossed the clan.
Normally, this would be the kind of situation where I brought them to Ronan and let him decide what happened next. But with him still being on his honeymoon, the final word is up to me.
Last night I told Jhene I don’t use my fists outside of work—and I meant that. I’m not some asshole who goes around looking to cause pain.
Not in my off time unless necessary.
But when I’m on duty? When I’m in the ring? When I’m operating as the Callahan’s boneman? I can be the most violent, bloodthirsty SOB in existence.
