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Still, accepting the ride on the back of his bike meant he could avoid the twenty-minute wait at the bus stop, and he was anxious to start searching for the perfect ring. It would have to be small, obviously. His job at the bank barely covered his tuition, but he’d put aside enough for a down payment. Now he needed a jeweler willing to let him finance.
He’d been thinking about those things when he’d accepted his brother’s offer, and they’d taken off ten minutes ago. Now they idled in front of a shady-looking apartment building in Vine City, nowhere near the mall.
Scott said he just needed to deliver something. He was lying through his teeth. Like always, his left eye twitched as the line of bull came out his mouth. Even worse, a light sheen of moisture dotted Scott’s forehead. Octobers in Atlanta weren’t exactly cold, but generally not warm enough to make someone break a sweat.
Except for whatever reason Scott was hiding.
“Why don’t you come in with me, K? I could use a little backup.”
He folded his arms. His brother couldn’t even look at him. “You know I don’t want anything to do with club business. Why would you need backup for a delivery anyway?” He didn’t even mention the obvious. Scott wasn’t carrying anything to drop off.
His brother made an impatient gesture toward the apartment building. It was one of at least five large, brick structures looming in front of them. A single basketball goal without a net stood amidst the cracked blacktop. An empty Cheetos bag skittered slowly across the pavement, but nothing else moved in sight.
“I’m delivering amessage, okay?” Scott’s voice held an edge. “I’m not asking you to do much. Just stand there. You don’t have to think of it as helping out the club; you’re helping out your brother.”
A knot of unease tightened in his stomach. “What exactly do you need my help with?”
Scott didn’t answer. He advanced on the apartment building, his shoulders tense, hands balled into fists at his sides.
Kane scrambled off the bike to catch up. “Scott—”
His brother’s hand flew up, silencing the question. Then he rapped his knuckles against the third door from the left.
It swung open instantly to reveal a tall heavyset black man with two thick gold chains resting against the vee of a black short-sleeved button-down shirt. He had a cigar cinched between his teeth. With a short nod to Scott, he opened the door wide enough for him to enter.
Kane had no choice but to follow.
A thick haze of marijuana smoke fogged the room, giving the illusion of soft edges in a space where none really existed. Three men sat surrounding a kitchen table littered with clear plastic bags filled with white powder, bricks—presumably of pot—wrapped in brown paper, stacks of cash, and a couple of handguns.
If he lived through this “delivery,” he was kicking Scott’s ass.
The big dude who answered the door stood behind the man sitting at the head of the table and crossed his arms over his chest. The seated guy, apparently his boss, looked sharp in a long-sleeved black dress shirt that managed to appear both soft and crisp at the same time. Black—maybe forty—he wore a fat, round diamond in his left ear.
The man to his left looked younger. Bald and Hispanic, he wore a gold silk shirt and a suit jacket the color of a peacock. The third guy—the one closest to Scott and Kane—was clearly a grunt, a skinny twenty-something with a backward baseball cap.
The boss spoke without looking up from the money he was counting. “Hale.” His voice had no inflection. “This isn’t your normal neck of the woods.”
Scott cleared his throat. “No.”
Placing the last bill into the stack in front of him, the man looked up. “Then what are you doing here?” he asked mildly. The question was all the more menacing with his gentle delivery.
Scott eyed the door, then shifted his gaze to Kane before turning back to the boss.
Oh shit. His heart lodged in his throat.
“Just delivering a message.” A heartbeat later, Scott had a gun in hand and was unloading bullets into the man in black and the bodyguard behind him.
Kane stood frozen, his ears ringing, unprepared as the skinny guy with the baseball cap sprang to his feet. Everything went in slow motion as the man pulled a wicked blade from his belt and lunged toward Scott.
There was no thought, only instinct, as he stepped between the knife and his brother’s throat. The serrated blade sliced into his left cheek.
He threw a punch, and his assailant doubled over, then struck out again with his blade. This time, the metal poked fire into his gut.
More gunshots flew around him, and the punch of a bullet penetrated his shoulder. He dropped like a ton of bricks; his attacker fell a couple of feet away, his dead eyes staring at the ceiling.
The room was silent now. His vision swam, blackness threatening to overtake him.
Peacock-blue slacks and a duffel bag passed his line of sight. “Your money, Señor Hale. You’ll find the cash is all there as promised.” A Spanish accent. “Now I suggest you see to your young friend. He’s not looking so good.”
