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I had been tasked with proving my worth to Hank by delivering the head of some sorry fucker in town. But, always one to exceed expectations, I’d brought Hank a half dozen.
The compound was teeming with life, its inhabitants engaged in their daily grind—gun running, drug dealing, and whatever other illicit activities the Dust Devils were involved in. I strode through the camp with my head held high, basking in the feeling of accomplishment.
Finally, I reached the epicenter of the operation—Hank’s office. The dark, foreboding doors seemed to beckon me inside. As I pushed them aside, I was met with the furious glare of Hank, the Dust Devils’ leader. His hulking frame cast a long shadow across the office, and his hands clenched into fists as he glared at my offering.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Wilder?” Hank snarled, his voice low and menacing. “I asked for one kill, one head as proof of your loyalty. Not six!”
“Well then, I suppose I proved myself in excess, Hank,” I said while dropping the burlap sack on the floor and strolling over to his bar cart and pouring myself a whiskey.
He stomped his boot. “You put six hearts on my doorstep.”
I swallowed the burning drink. “I also buried body parts all over your property. You can try to find them, but I hid them pretty well.”
“What?” he stammered. “How the fuck did you pull that off?”
I spun around to face him. “Borrowed some horses and hauled them to the Devils’ compound. An arm here. A leg there. I’ll give you a hint. One of their dicks is in your mailbox.”
Hank’s eyes narrowed at my words, but I could tell part of him was impressed with my ingenuity. Still, he wasn’t one to be toyed with.
But I suppose neither was I.
“You think this is a game, Wilder?” he growled. “You think you can go above my head and do whatever the hell you please?”
“I think you are confused about who is in charge,” I snapped back. “You hired me. You need me. I don’t like being threatened, Hank. And now I’ve got something over your head. You try to hurt me, you try to go against me, and I’ll have the FBI at your door with a search warrant and a map to all the bodies you forced me to hide.”
Hank was furious, and it made me happy to see him squirm. He’d been in a position of power for too long.
“You need me,” he growled. “You need the information I have about your mother.”
I smiled. “And you’re going to give it to me. Or I’ll kill every last one of your men and make it look like you were some asshole cult leader that cut off their heads. Don’t test me, Hank.”
He stammered. “You wouldn’t.”
I walked up to him and crossed my arms against my chest. “Try me. We both know what I’m capable of. We both know the resources at my disposal. I didn’t become a skilled assassin by sitting around on my ass and letting everyone else do the heavy lifting. I have connections you wouldn’t even dream of. We both know the only reason you’re still alive is because you have information I need, and I’m willing to work with you to get it. You can either stop throwing your weight around and cooperate or you can die, Hank. Either way, I’ll get the answers I’m searching for. One way or another.”
He sat in his seat, huffing and puffing like a tired old man. “Are you still going to kill the judge for me?”
“I’m a man of my word, Hank. But it’ll be on my terms. When the dust settles, you’ll tell me the truth.”
I turned around and walked out of the room, leaving behind a frightened and angry Hank. I had made my point, and I had no doubt he would comply.
I had become the one thing I had always strived to be.
The one they feared.
CLOVER
Consciousness crept back slowly, a stealthy, creeping cat padding over the cool tiles of my mind. I was lying on something firm yet not completely uncomfortable. The sharp aroma of cleaning solution tinged with something . . . rusty, maybe, filled my nostrils. I squirmed, only to have the rough bite of rope chafe my wrists.
My eyes flew open.
“Easy there, Clover.”
The voice was soft, dangerously soft, like the murmur of water just before it tumbles down a fall. I craned my neck to find the source of the voice. Declan. He was sitting on a chair, casually sipping from a steaming mug, watching me with a fire that was both unsettling and oddly captivating.
His dark hair caught the dim light filtering through the closed blinds of the RV. His chiseled jaw was relaxed, stubble shadowing the strong lines of his face. But it was his eyes, those ocean-hued eyes, that drew my attention. They were filled with a strange brew of amusement, mania, and something else I couldn’t quite place—was it concern?
“Why . . . why am I still tied up?” My voice emerged as a croak, my throat dry and scratchy. I’d been angry when he tied me up. Furious. I fought so hard against the restraints that I wore myself out and fell asleep.
