Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(65)

If he’s smart, I’ll never see him again.



Silence.

That’s what I’m met with, standing in the old warehouse in Brooklyn, surrounded by my guys.

Well, the guys I’ve got left, anyway.

Silence.

“So, wait, hold up,” Three says after a moment, the first to open his mouth. Of course. “Bruno was Judas? Seriously? Our Bruno?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but... Bruno?”

I turn away from him, glancing into the crate in front of me at the shipment of assault rifles. I know how he’s feeling. I’ve been feeling it since last night. Blindsided.

I let the guy get too close to me.

I depended on him for far too much.

“I just... wow,” Three says, still the only one with anything to say. “This sucks.”

The others finally chime in, mumbling in agreement.

“No, for real, it really sucks,” Three says. “I mean, with Bruno gone, who’s going to be bringing the snacks?”

A bit of laughter echoes through the warehouse.

“You’re a dumbass, Declan,” Five says. “That’s what’s bothering you? Who you’re going to turn to when you get the munchies in the afternoon?”

“Fuck off,” Three says. “It’s a valid concern.”

“It’s carrot sticks and granola bars,” Five points out. “If it makes your bitch ass feel better, I’ve got a knob you can slob on. Treat it like a lollipop.”

I shake my head, reaching into the crate and pulling out the sleek new AR-15 as they bicker back and forth. I’ve stopped listening. Same ol’ bullshit. I’m grateful for it, the background noise. They fight like brothers but they’d kill for each other, and that’s all that really matters.

“So, wait, hold up,” Three says again, raising his voice. “Boss, what did you do about Bruno? I mean, should I be sending his wife flowers or something?”

“Maybe you can shack up with her next,” Five suggests. “She can pack you your own snacks.”

“Huh, that idea’s not half-bad,” Three says. “She’s kind of hot, you know, for an old chick.”

“She’s barely forty, Deac.”

“I’m only twenty-one, dipshit, which means she’s older than my mother.”

“You’d still fuck her...”

“Yeah, well, probably.”

“If you fellas are done,” I say, holding the weapon out for someone to take it, “we can get on with business.”

Five grabs the gun.

“For real, boss.” Three steps over, pausing beside me. “Bruno?”

I pick up another gun, shoving it at Three. “Hate to break it to you, but his wife already raised two sons... she doesn’t need another little boy to take care of.”

The guys make noises, poking fun, as Three rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Besides,” I say, passing guns out to the others, “you ought to save the flowers for another day, like for when her husband is actually dead.”

They all look at me with surprise.

Again, Three’s the only one to chime in. “Whoa, you kept him breathing?”

“For now.”

“But not forever?”

“That’s really up to him, isn’t it?” I ask before motioning around the warehouse. “Clear the rest of this shit out, move it somewhere... I don’t care... just get it out of here. When you’re done, burn the place, leave no trace of any of us, just in case.”





Chapter Sixteen





The little girl was tired. So very tired. She wasn’t sleepy, though. No, she was the kind of tired that felt like sadness without all the tears.

Her body hurt.

The outside hurt, because her shoulder still felt funny and she had bruises all over from falling off the roof, and the inside hurt, because everything was all wrong and nothing felt okay anymore.

She went back to hiding again, even though it wasn’t a game, because she didn’t want to see any of those people. They all lied, and were mean, and they wouldn’t let her go home, no matter how nicely she asked.

So she hid for hours, for days. The Tin Man acted like she’d turned invisible, like he didn’t care if she was there, which was weird, since he’d added alarms and locks to all the windows so they wouldn’t open again. The Cowardly Lion still hung around. He sometimes looked for her. He’d search under beds and inside closets, but he never said a word, just staring at her before going away again.

Weeks went on that way, weeks of isolation, of silence. Sometimes the little girl would whisper words to herself, would tell herself stories when she was alone in the dark, just to be sure that her voice still worked. Sandwiches would appear on the desk in her bedroom, or sometimes in brown bags outside wherever she was hiding. It started out as stuff like fish and bologna, but eventually, it turned into peanut butter and grape jelly.

She didn’t want to eat anything from them, but she was so hungry, and those were her favorite, so sometimes, she couldn’t help herself.

The little girl didn’t know what day it was now, or how long it had been, as she lay curled up on the floor of the kitchen pantry, staring at the light filtering in from beneath the closed doors. Voices carried through, some that she hadn’t heard before. They didn’t have an accent like the flying monkeys. These were just visitors.