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Kincaid tried to use me before to blow up the Quinate. Hendrick set that straight, and he must have wanted to die rather than do that. But money and power are more important to him than hating me, so he choked down pride and did the thing that protected my ass and made us all more money. And crafted the way to keep Kincaid down while appeasing him.
Appeased in a way that gave Kincaid little, protected us, and saved the fucking day.
He’s really the absolute fucking worst. Hendrick. Frenemy to enemy to mutually beneficial equals. No matter how much better than me he thinks he fucking is.
Which drags me back to why I think about calling Hendrick.
Kincaid’s up to something. He wants to expand, bring in other business plays, one he’s tiptoeing about so it’s got to be bad. I’m thinking sex slave girls. Maybe underage. That shit seems to go together. Move guns and girls. Heroin, too.
I just can’t work out his angle.
There’s no seat at our table, and if there was, he wouldn’t be a candidate.
Not his father, and not him.
Kester—which isn’t a fucking name—Kincaid’s a nasty gun runner with less morals than me. One I pushed to keep in with the Quinate because his guns are quality, bountiful and cheap. He has connections to high stake underground gambling for those of us into that shit…buying in, not partaking because those things are a hotbed of filthy rich men and women who want all the decadence they can get.
And give those people enough decadence, enough thrills, and they’ll part with money, power, and secrets.
But there are connections and there are positions of power. And they’re not always the same. Kester’s got the first, for some reason he wants the second. Or so it seems.
“What are you angling for Kes?” I ask, suddenly supremely bored by him because my phone just buzzed, and MG pops up on the screen. “Cut to the chase.”
“I’ve come into some interesting goods. Top quality. Young. Virginal.”
“We don’t do human trade, man.”
He nods. “These are stellar.” His voice drops. “American.”
“Fuck no.”
“I also have some new black ops level weaponry. And a new drug. Then…” He stops and smiles and it’s on the creepier side of creepy. “I’d like to present.”
“At a Quinate meeting?” I shake my head. “It’s closed doors. But I’ll float it.”
“Jac, if you do this, there’d be no need for the Quinate. Just you.”
“Back to the old days.” I could bring up the fact he tried to sell me out before, but I don’t. I’m good at this kind of fucking poker. “Good talk. I’ll be in touch.”
I finish my drink, shake his hand, and leave.
* * *
Carlos taps his hand on his thigh when we get in the car. “Jac, I don’t like him.”
“He’s into hiding under rocks,” I say.
“I don’t trust him.”
“Carlos, on a scale of one to ten of trust, he’s a negtive twenty. I’m betting he’s going to try the others, too.”
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
“What I always do. Survive and prosper.”
* * *
Hair of the fucking dog. I sit in my robe in the low light of my study, hair still wet. I have my third drink of the evening.
