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Somehow, I have to get us out of here.
It's all on me, because Morgan's got wide eyes, like she's a deer trapped in the headlights of Moose's semi.
"Michael, just hold on for a second. Clearly, you're in charge here and you deserve some answers. I can explain everything..." I start. Reasoning with Michael is futile; he's too far gone, driven by power and rage, but I have to say something to keep him distracted. Because I've just remembered something important.
The rock in my pocket.
My hand slips into my pocket, fingers curling around the solid stone I'd pocketed earlier.
"If you want the answer about why Owen's doing this, I need to tell you about the time my friend Moose went to Jacksonville..."
I barely get into the story before Michael throws a frustrated look at the ceiling.
"Shut the fuck up," he snaps.
It's just the opening I need.
With a swift movement, I hurl the rock at him, using every ounce of my pent-up frustration and fear. It strikes him, causing him to stagger and the gun to drop.
"Run, Morgan!" I scream, grabbing her hand.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Striker
It doesn’t take long to convince Smokey to change his plan from attacking the Vertucci compound to doing what we really need to do. Not once I tell him about Luca Morgan Taylor. The second that little baby’s presence becomes public knowledge, everyone in the MC and in Smokey’s crew, including Smokey himself, is ready to ride into the mouth of Hell just to free that child from the Mafia’s clutches.
It doesn’t take long for Ghost to locate the Vertucci family safe house. Five minutes on a laptop, and he has the address, photos of the exterior and interior shots, and schematics for the whole fucking safe house.
“Who the fuck are you?” I whisper as he brings up detailed designs for the place, including exterior photos that are dated just a few weeks ago. “And is this a video feed? How the fuck did you get that?”
“I’m good. That’s all you need to know,” he says, chuckling. “And yeah, that’s a live feed from the liquor store down the street. They didn’t secure their network and so their camera’s just open for the world. Or, at least, to anyone who knows the slightest bit what they’re doing.”
"So, just you and a couple of other creepy guys living in their mom's basements?" Thunder says.
"You want your credit card details posted online, Marcus Thompson?" Ghost retorts.
"Sure, go ahead. Some stranger on the internet couldn't do any more damage than I've already done. Got drunk last weekend, got on Amazon, and now I am the proud owner of one-hundred-and-forty-two Chia heads. Including eighteen special edition ones of Sophia from the Golden Girls. Those cost seventy-five bucks apiece."
"Fuck, dude, that's brutal," Ghost says, his voice softening. "Maybe I'll see if I can't do some poking around in your bank's system later. Help you out of that mess."
"And you're sure this is where they're keeping the baby, Ghost?" Bullet says, his arms crossed, a determined look on his face.
Ghost nods. "The Vertuccis got a few other safe houses that I could find, but two of them are occupied with people who I doubt would appreciate having a crying baby around, and the other one isn't so much a safe house as it is a fuckpad for Lorenzo Caruso and Matteo Biachi, two of Michael Vertucci's cousins. That one has a fuck dungeon in the basement and, according to a few emails I read in Matteo's account — which had the elegant password '69allday69' — has a roof with an open-air orgy pit and an outdoor kitchen with a barbecue and a brick pizza oven."
"Oh, fancy," Hawk says. "I could go for a pizza right now."
"We can all agree on what we've got to do, right?" I say, looking around at each member of the group.
"Order pizza?" Hawk says, hopefully.
"No, you fuckwit," Smokey says. "We're in, Owen. This is the right thing to do. We'll follow your lead."
Our motorbikes roll like vengeful thunder down the quiet morning streets of Costa Oscura as we break toward the safe house, a storm of violence ready to demolish anyone in our path. Smokey and I trade a look as we approach the house, a single glance and the depths of our brotherhood all it takes to communicate.You take left, I'll take right.The two guards in the living room hardly have a moment to reach for their rifles before Smokey and I each take them out with well-placed shots to the chest, the bullets shattering the living room window and sealing the fates of the sofa-sitting guards. Center mass, just like we've been trained.
Two down. Doesn't matter how many are left — whatever it takes to rescue that boy.
I leap off my bike before it even hits a stop, Smokey right in my wake. The rest of the crew is right behind us.
