Page 75 of Life Or Death

He claps me on the back and inches closer. “You know what your problem is?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“Of course. What are brothers for if they’re not willing to deplete their savings accounts and hand you the hard truth?”

“Torture,” I deadpan.

“You think too much,” he says, like he just invented the cure for cancer. “That’s your problem.” He taps ash into an empty beer bottle. “You don’t need a fucking school to teach you how to be her husband. What you need is to make it official. . .” His voice trails and his brows furrow. “Well, I guess it’s official even if it’s forged, right? Maybe you should get a priest. Is she Jewish? I know a rabbi.”

Yeah, I’m definitely having this motherfucker drug tested.

The front door swings open and Tormentor walks in fully clothed, his phone pressed to his ear, which is more than I can say for either of us. Dread turns his head, takes one look at Tormentor’s grim expression, and the crazy seems to flee him.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “That’s not a face that’s about to deliver good news. I’m too fucking hungover to play cops and robbers.”

Tormentor ends the call and tucks the phone into his pocket, then pulls up a stool on my other side.

“Bad news?” I ask.

“Depends on your definition.” He glances at Dread’s joint, then at me. “The shipment in Nuevo Laredo got hit. They took everything—the rifles, the ammo, the cash.”

I feel my jaw tighten. “How many dead?”

“Three. Two of ours, one of theirs.” Tormentor leans forward, his elbows on the bar. “They left a message, though. Said they want to talk.”

“Talk,” I scoff. “They stole a hundred grand worth of hardware and killed two of our guys, and they want to talk. Tell them they can go fuck their mothers.”

“And their fathers,” Dread adds, passing his joint to Tormentor, who declines by waving him off.

Tormentor’s gaze cuts to me. “I don’t think they want a war. It sounds like they’re looking to negotiate.”

“We don’t have anything to fucking barter with,” I growl. “What are we going to give them a herd of cows from the ranch we sunk all our money into?”

“Perhaps a five-night stay at the dude ranch when it’s up and running,” Dread suggests. “Complete with horseback lessons and unlimited cornbread sliders. Nothing says peace more than some southern hospitality.”

Tormentor narrows his eyes at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

Dread shrugs. “I have no idea, man.” He examines the joint in his hand. “Blame it on the Devil’s lettuce.”

Tormentor shakes his head before bringing his gaze back to me. “We should get Shadow’s take on this. You want me to round up the boys?”

“For what?” I ask. “It’s pretty obvious these motherfuckers are looking to put a bullet in my head the second I cross the border,” I mutter.

Tormentor nods slowly. “That’s a possibility.”

I stare at the bar, my mind already running through logistics—who to bring, what route to take, how much firepower we’d need if things go sideways. But underneath all of it, there’s a thread of something I haven’t felt before. A hesitation. A pull toward that room down the hall where Jess is sleeping in my bed, marked, claimed, and completely unaware that I’m about to disappear for three days and there’s a possibility I’ll return in a pine box.

How’s that for husband material?

“Set it up,” I tell Tormentor. “Call Shade and have him plan the route. Tell him I want us back in three days. That gives us time to make the drop in North Carolina.”

Dread raises an eyebrow. “So, let me get this straight. We’re going to go to Mexico to fuck shit up and kill some margarita-loving motherfuckers. Then we’re going to steal the guns they stole from us and deliver them to North Carolina . . . all in three days? Am I right?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan,” I grunt.

“Got it.” Dread nods and lifts his joint in the air. “Well, here’s to hoping they don’t kill us.”

I leave Dread at the bar with his joint and his bullshit, nodding once at Tormentor before pushing off the stool and heading back down the hallway.