The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(97)

Rhage smiled at Vishous as the brother walked in—and tried to make it look like he wasn’t curling himself protectively around his tray.

“Don’t worry,” V muttered as he lit up a hand-rolled. “I’m not hungry.”

“I have literally never said that. In my life.”

“I live with you, remember. I know better than to try to take your Danish.”

Exhaling, V went over to where he kept his ashtray on the edge of the desk, a leather-clad hard-ass with a goatee, tattoos at his temple, and all the compassion of a sawed-off shotgun.

“I like my arms and legs right where they are, and I’m already down one testicle.”

“I would never,” Rhage muttered around a mouthful.

“You absolutely would. And speaking of ouchies, tall, dark, and cranky is on his way. Wrath should be here—”

A buzzing sound had V taking out his Samsung Galaxy. Putting his hand-rolled between his white teeth, he scrolled into something.

“They’re early.”

“Who is?”

“The special request.” V put his phone away. “You can stay here with your calories, if you want.”

“I hadn’t had a B plan, my guy.”

On that note, how was it possible he only had two left? At least he had the OJ to look forward to, Rhage thought as he heard V talk to someone out in the foyer—

Gunpowder. He was smelling gunpowder.

The tray went off to the side, and he stalked across that Persian carpet, taking out the forty he kept at the small of his back. He was halfway down the room when the butler came through the flap door in the rear with a carafe of OJ.

Rhage pinned the doggen with a hard stare and nodded sharply to the side.

Fritz immediately bowed and backed out. Then there was a click as the butler locked the entry into the kitchen.

Emerging into the foyer, Rhage looked through the waiting area’s archway and saw an older male in a red-and-black-checked flannel shirt that was way too heavy for late summer. V, who was standing next to the guy, didn’t seem worried at all, so Rhage retucked his weapon. But he remained on high alert as he entered.

Across the way, in front of the seating arrangement’s coffee table, a female wearing jeans and boots was lifting a loose, white, full-sleeved shirt—to reveal a whole lot of click, click, bang, bang. Yet she was disarming, her metal joining a whole host of other shootables. Clearly, the old guy had de-leaded himself first.

“Rhage,” V said, “come meet a friend of mine. This is Dredrich. He taught me how to sharpen knives.”

Rhage whistled under his breath as he held out his palm. “Wow. You’ve done all of us a favor.”

The old male had mostly white hair and a lot of wrinkles on his face, but his eyes were bright and clear.

“It is an honor.” Dredrich shook what was offered to him and then bowed low. “And Vishous, please forgive me for asking for special dispensation.”

V shrugged. “S’all good. Tell us, what do you need? And for fuck’s sake, you could have just called me privately. You didn’t need to go through official channels.”

“I did not want to be a burden.” The old male held out a bundle wrapped in gray. “Allow me first to return this to you.”

V accepted whatever it was, unwrapping things with quick, sure hands—one of which, as always, sported a lead-lined black leather glove.

“Well, well, well,” the brother said as he palmed up a black dagger. “I’ve been missing this.”

“You left it during our last lesson. You were called away. I kept thinking you’d come back for it so I kept it hidden and safe.”

V’s diamond eyes shifted from the black blade to the old male. Then the brother bowed. “You’re a male of worth, old friend.”

Meanwhile, Rhage double-checked, just because he was like that, that the female wasn’t getting any bright ideas about—

“Hey,” he said, “are those grenades?”

The older male nodded. “Yes, they are.”

Just as Rhage was going to ask where the hell the pair of civilians were going with an arsenal’s worth of firepower, the female turned around. As he looked at her to get a read on things, her face drained of all color.

“Hey, hey . . .” He lunged forward to catch her in case she fainted. “Let’s sit you down—”

With a shaking hand, she reached up and grabbed his shoulder.

“What?” he said. Then he noticed the healing scar at her hairline and a bruise on the side of her jaw. “Do you need a doctor?”

“I need your help.” Her voice was threaded with emotion. “Oh, God, we need your help. Your brother needs your help.”



It was the eyes. The incredible blue eyes, the aquamarine blue eyes that Nyx had never seen on any other people. But Jack. And Peter.

And now, this member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood.

“Please,” she said, aware that she was shaking. “We need your help.”

The warrior locked a gentle hold on her arm, like he expected her to pass out. “Can we get you some medical attention? You’ve clearly got some—”

Emotion vibrated up from the center of her chest, making her talk too fast. “Jack, you need to help Jack—”

“—bruising on your face, and this wound on—”