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“What happened to you?”
“I woke up to reality, Alex. Learned the truth. That the only thing that really matters is money. Learned that any motherfucker who’d get in the way of that is no friend of mine.”
“I’m in the way. Are you going to kill me, too?”
He twists my arm so hard I fear it’s going to break, and I scream in pain.
“Oh, no, I’m not going to kill you, Alex. Those aren’t my orders. I’m taking you to see your father.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Dixon
The plan is simple: we treat Rafael Reyes like the cancer he is and we strike surgically to excise that tumor. It doesn’t take long for Ghost to track down the information about where Rafael Reyes lives. He’s owned the same home for decades. The same house that Lucas and Alexandra grew up in. The irony isn’t lost on me that, to save the only woman I’ve loved, I’ll have to kill her last remaining family member in her childhood home.
The house is on an almost-rural stretch outside of Sacramento. Not the best neighborhood, not really even a neighborhood, but it’s one of those places where what you’d pay to live in a near-condemned dive apartment in town can instead get you a decent tract of land and no nosy neighbors. We arm ourselves. At nightfall, we converge on the house and surround it at a distance.
Ghost and Rook stand beside me at a vantage point. At another location with visibility on the house, wait Bullet and Striker. At another, Hawk and Thunder.
I raise a scope to my eye. There are two lights on inside the home, one in what looks to be an upstairs office, and another in a downstairs living room, where the light from a couple lamps is accompanied by the flickering glow of a television. The lone motorcycle in the front driveway tells me he’s home. This is our chance.
“Let’s move in. Give the signal. We’ll breach from all sides.”
“Kill or capture?” Rook says. He has his cell in his hand, and I’m certain Bullet, the club’s VP, is on the line. They’re waiting for my word, my decision.
I grunt, thinking. There’s a part of me that plays with the idea of capturing Rafael Reyes. In making him confess, and then showing the proof to Alexandra. By capturing her father, maybe we could recapture what once existed between us. But even I know it’s a siren’s call of an idea. Alexandra would never believe me, no matter what proof I showed her. She and I are done, and the only option left to me is to move on, move in, and kill her father. It’s the last gift I can give her — protecting her from that monster and avenging her brother.
Part of me hopes she finds out.
Part of me just wants to clear my conscience and let time and scar tissue cover the wounds in my heart.
“Kill,” I reply. “If they can subdue him, so I get the final shot, great. But all that really fucking matters is that this piece of shit dies.”
Rook nods once, terse and understanding. There’s no further discussion, no second-guessing. We’re professionals. The word passes down the line as quickly as a spark along a fuse. We fan out, keeping to the shadows, our movements silent, but deliberate.
As we close in, the tension coils tightly within me. This is personal, yet it’s far more than just my vendetta. It's justice for too many souls whose lives have been polluted by drugs and whose cries have been silenced by Rafael Reyes — Lucas Reyes first and foremost.
We reach our entry points, and the silence is shattered by the sound of splintering glass and groaning wood as windows and doors bust open. Seconds stretch like taffy, distorting time as we make our breach.
I’m through a window, rolling and coming up with my weapon leveled. The television blares some late-night infomercial, surreal against the sudden violence. I raise my weapon to the ready position and begin my search.
"Clear!" comes Bullet’s voice from what must be the kitchen.
Other voices shout a similar refrain.
I push on towards the stairs where the office light still spills its yellow glow. Gunshots pop from somewhere behind me — sharp retorts that seem louder indoors — followed by a string of curses in Rook's voice. I climb the stairs two at a time, each step reinforcing my resolve.
He must be up here.
This is it.
Finally, I can put this behind me.
At the top of the staircase is a hallway, carpeted and lined with family photos — moments frozen in time, betraying no hint of the monster who lives here. I see photos of how Alexandra used to be, before all this hell came into her life. Before she met me. In those photos, she’s smiling, bright, carefree, loved. No more.
Reyes' door is slightly ajar; he's not coming out.
I imagine what life will be like once I’ve put a bullet in his head, once I’ve found justice and put to rest the guilt and the pain I’ve carried for so long.
