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Darian
“You really think he won’t see us?” I ask Peter. “I mean, an Aston Martin isn’t exactly discrete.”
“It’s more discrete than a fucking limo,” he replies, throwing an annoyed glance my way. “I’m keeping my distance. He won’t see us coming, I promise you.” True to his word, Peter keeps three cars between us and Max’s Hummer. Like the asshole that he is, Max enjoys being driven around New York in an extravagant Hummer with spinning rims, as if he’s some kind of hip-hop mogul.
“Now, how about you get us some backup?” Peter says. “I mean, we have no idea where Max’s leading us. For all we know, he might have an army waiting for us. I think I can take a couple of guys on my own, but...”
He leaves the rest unsaid.
“Yeah, on it.” I grab my phone and make a quick call to my head security. Once I have his assurance that his men are on the move, I push the phone back into my pocket. Up ahead, Max’s Hummer makes a sharp turn left, heading straight into Queens. The traffic’s as thick here as it was on the main avenues, and so we manage to remain undetected. For how long, I can’t really say.
“Alright, he’s pulling in.” Peter pulls the Aston over, and we watch as the Hummer rolls into the underground level of some weathered building. “What do we do now? I say we burst in and beat that fucking asshole into a pulp. ‘Cause if he has Becky...”
“We can’t roll in like that,” I tell him. Jesus, sometimes it feels like I’m talking to a kid. “You’ve said it yourself. We have no idea how many of Max’s minions might be waiting inside. We have to wait for the cavalry to get here.”
Thankfully, it isn’t long before three Range Rovers pull up next to us. A small army of my own, clad in black suits and earpieces instead of armor, climbs down from inside the cars. I point at the building and Townshend, my head of security, gives me a quick nod. Just like that, his men start surrounding the building.
“No way am I going to let these guys take the lead,” Peter snaps, and then he’s out of the car. For once, I don’t protest. He has the right of it. We have these guys as backup, but we should be the ones dealing with Max.
We lead the way into the building, Townshend’s men trailing after us, and we’re immediately greeted by two giants with shaved heads. Their eyebrows shoot up once they realize just how many men they’re facing, but they still reach for the guns on their belts. Before they can get to them, Peter and I let out a warcry and charge them, tackling them to the ground like linebackers.
“Where’s your boss?” I growl, pinning one of the men to the ground. He snarls something intelligible, and so I slap some sense into him. “Where the fuck is your boss? Tell me right fucking now, or I’m going to rip your tongue out and make lasagna with it.”
Afraid of a new career as a lasagna, the man points a meaty finger to a rusty door. “The basement,” he whimpers. “He’s down in the basement...with the woman.”
Peter and I exchange a glance, and then we’re off. We go down some wobbly staircase and emerge in a dank and dimly lit basement. There, my eyes are immediately drawn to the center of the room. Becky’s there, tied up to a chair, and blood is welling up from a cut on her lip.
“Motherfucker,” I growl, rage taking over me.
I look around the basement, looking for someone I can unleash my rage on, and that’s when I notice Max. He’s surrounded by four men, all of them carrying guns, and his eyes widen when he notices us. In fact, they widen so damn much I’m actually surprised they haven’t jumped out from their sockets.
“Don’t even think about it!” Townshend bellows, his gun at the ready. Max’s minions, who were about to reach for their own guns, hesitate. Knowing they’re defeated, they take a step back from their boss and hold their arms up.
“Take care of them,” I tell Townshend, “but leave that fat asshole to me.”
“And to me,” Peter echoes, and the two of us march toward Max, cracking our knuckles as we go.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Max shouts, taking a step back. He spits at our feet, and then reaches for a gun he keeps tucked on his belt. Before he can pull it loose, I close the distance between us and introduce him to my fist. I feel his nose breaking with a satisfying crunch, and Max stumbles back and falls over.
“What does it look like?” Peter asks him, standing over him like an executioner. He points an angry finger at Becky. “Did you really think you could mess with her? Did you really think we were gonna let that happen?”
“I don’t give a shit about the woman,” Max snarls.
“But you do give a fuck about your business,” I say, glaring at him. “You thought you could use us, didn’t you? Too bad we saw it coming from a mile away.”
“Did you?” He laughs and, when he does, his teeth are covered in blood. “You saw nothing, you idiots. Peter here has already signed the papers. You’re too late, fuckers. The money is already working its way through Peter’s company, and it’s my legal right to have a seat at the table.”
“Is that so?” Peter grins, and then goes down on one knee in front of Max. He pinches the fat bastard’s nose with his thumb and index finger, and only lets go when the man starts to whimper in pain. “Well, here’s something you don’t know: I knew what you were doing, so I got in touch with the banks. I have powerful friends in the banking sector, and they were more than happy to hear about your entrepreneurial spirit. So much that they got in touch with the FBI, which in turn called their friends at the DOJ.”
“What...what are you talking about?” Max stammers, his confidence giving way to panic. “No, that’s not possible.”
“Oh, you can bet your ass it is,” Peter laughs. “All the money you were trying to launder is now seized. And do you want to know the best part? The DOJ has offered me a 25% cut as a reward. So, yeah...not only are you about to take residence in a federal prison, your ass is now broke.”
“I’m gonna get you for this,” he growls, his panic now replaced by unbridled fury. “You’re as good as dead. The man I work with will not stand for—”
“Shut the fuck up.” I punch him in the nose again. Max slumps to the ground, unconscious. “Fucking hell, all that yappering was givin’ me an headache.”
“Guys, do you mind giving me a hand?” I hear Becky say. Still tied to the chair, she arches one eyebrow and gives us an amused smile. “I appreciate you coming here, but I wouldn’t mind being untied. Unless that’s what you guys are into.”
“We’re into anything,” Peter laughs. “Just as long as you’re a part of it.”
