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“I said fucking collect her,” Herrin bites out, not taking his eyes off Drex.
Drex smirks before cracking his neck to the side.
“No one here is that stupid, Pop. She has my name on her. She’s mine. They know it. Do you really think anyone is suicidal enough to walk into my warehouse and fuck with my girl?”
Herrin’s cold façade slowly vanishes when more and more anger builds, turning his face a scarier shade of red by the second.
“Benny’s alliance hinges on that girl finding a cold grave. She’s his son’s fucking friend. This isn’t your warehouse. It’s mine. It’s all mine, Drex. Including her. I put her on loan to you. Maybe I’ll see what all the fuss has been about.”
My heartbeat slams into my ears when Drex’s hands go from crossed over his chest to holding two guns—one pointed at Herrin, and the other pointed at the one they call Hershel—in less than a breath.
Herrin’s eyes widen marginally, and Hershel pauses his hand on his gun, not risking pulling it out. Guns get drawn all around, but it’s like no one is sure who to aim at as allegiances and loyalties get distorted. Except for Drex’s friends. They’re all holding guns on Herrin and Hershel.
“So it comes to this?” Herrin snarls. “Over a piece of pussy? Guess I have more in common with Benny than I realized. That girl is nothing but toxic waste.”
“It’s not just about her, Pop,” Drex says coldly. “I almost died because of you putting yourself first. This club hasn’t been your priority in years. And as for you giving a damn about anyone other than yourself, well, I think I’ve finally woken up and seen the truth about why Kara has been on the run for years. Now you want to take my girl like you have the right? You think any other man in here would allow that?”
“Take those off. You don’t deserve to wear our colors,” Herrin spits out. “I don’t want you wearing them when they put a bullet through your head right in front of your whore.”
Drex tenses ever so slightly when Herrin looks up at me, letting Drex know I’m up here and watching the horror show go down. Then he looks back at Drex and steps into the gun until the barrel is pressed against his head.
“Pull the trigger. Start the war. Go ahead, Drex. Pull the fucking trigger,” Herrin dares.
Drex’s finger hesitates on the trigger, and I stop breathing altogether. Pretty sure I’m not the only one holding my breath.
The hand holding the gun on Hershel moves fast, and the crunching sound of metal against skull rings out as Herrin’s head jerks to the side. Drex just punched his father with a gun hard enough to knock the bastard out.
When Herrin falls to the floor motionless, everyone looks at everyone, but nobody speaks or moves.
“If you’re going with him, I suggest you leave now. Otherwise, I may just start fucking shooting anyone I think agrees with him,” Drex says in a low growl.
He takes his Death Dealers cut off and tosses it in front of him, and I watch as everyone continues to do nothing but stare.
“And take that with you. If being a Death Dealer means being dictated by a liar and a coward, I’m out. I’m also taking my business with me. Good luck figuring out our secrets as to how we make shit work. As for this warehouse? Check the fucking name on the deed. It’s property of Drex Caine. Now get the fuck out if you’re a Death Dealer. You’re not welcome.”
He puts his guns away, but Dash and the others keep their guns trained on Hershel and a few men near him. Snake is the only one not holding a gun. He looks like he couldn’t care less about anything going on right now.
Hershel leans over and snatches up the cut Drex just tossed down, and another guy joins him to help lift Herrin to his feet, even though he’s just dead weight.
“He’ll kill you for this,” Hershel growls.
“He can try,” Rush retorts, pulling his own cut off very awkwardly as he keeps his gun pointed on Hershel. With one hand, he tosses the cut at the man’s feet.
As if it starts a tidal wave, numerous others start doing the same thing, taking off their cuts and launching them at the feet of the unconscious man. Death Dealer cuts go from sacred to blasphemous in less than a breath, and I watch in awe as everyone in the warehouse chooses a side.
Only twelve men move to be with Hershel and Herrin. The others stand around in T-shirts.
“What about you?” Hershel asks, glaring at Sledge who seems to be lost in thought.
“I’ve been sick of Herrin since the day he put a hit out on his own daughter,” Sledge says gruffly, tossing his own cut into the pile. “Just never had anywhere else to be. Looks like shit has changed.”
