Page 17 of Iced Out

“Your turn, fucker,” he muttered, reaching above the man to where his wrists were wired to the chain.

“No-no-no… please… no…”

“Save your breath,” Clint drawled. “You’re gonna need it.”

“No-No, please… I’ll do anything…” the guest begged shamelessly. “Don’t… please don’t!”

Clint clipped the wire, and the man’s arms dropped heavily as his legs buckled. His knees hit the concrete with an audible crack, and he fell forward onto his bound hands, his wrists swollen, bruised, and bleeding, causing a purple swelling in his palms and fingers. The guest stayed that way, huddled forward, sobbing into his own watery vomit on the floor.

“Get up, you fucking coward,” Clint ordered, grabbing a fistful of his hair. “You pricks act so fucking tough out there, protected by corrupt laws, but when your masks come off—you’re nothing but a bunch of weak, sniveling pussies.” He hoisted the man to his feet.

The guest came up off the concrete in a graceless, convulsive heave, his legs buckling. He drove a sharp elbow deep into Clint’s gut. The cowboy’s breath exploded out of him in a choked gasp, his grip faltering for one critical instant. The man tore himself free, stumbling forward with a lurching, unbalanced gait. He slammed hard into the edge of the wooden table, the impact shuddering through him. His hands scrambled wildly across its scarred surface, closing at last around the worn leather grip of a machete. He spun, pressing his back against the table’s edge for support, and raised the blade—a long, brutal arc of steel—swinging it in frantic, panicked sweeps.

“Stay back!” he cried. “Stay the fuck back!”

Recovering from the strike to the gut, Clint stood in place, staring at the man. Cochise, Cruz, and Rodriguez looked their way and advanced casually.

“Get back!” The man swung the blade toward them, his wild eyes darting between them and Clint.

“What do you plan to do with that pig sticker?” Cochise asked, his voice raw and guttural.

“I’ll-I’ll-I’ll fucking kill you! Stay back or else!”

“Or else.” Cruz huffed, looking dryly at Clint, a faint smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “Cute.”

“Fuck you!” The man shrieked.

Cruz snorted. “Not a chance in hell.”

Scooting his hips along the table until he reached the far end, he staggered backward toward the door. His swollen hands shook as he swung the machete back and forth, keeping his eyes on all four men.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Rodriguez asked. “We’re not done here.”

“Fuck off, spic!” the guest yelled. His chest hitched with heavy, ragged breaths, making his shoulders heave. “I’m getting out of here right fucking now!”

Clint’s exasperated breath left him in a slow pull through his nose. He drew and fired—once, twice—the shots enormous in the enclosed space, their concussion a physical thing that pressed against the eardrums and moved through the chest. The first shot claimed the man’s left knee and spun him; the second found the right on the way down. He hit the concrete in sections, the machete ringing out as it left his hand and skidded away under the table. The screaming started a half-second later, the way it always did—the body needing a moment to process what had happened.

“We don’t have time for theatrics,” Clint muttered, walking over to squat beside the wailing, bleeding man. “We’re expected home for dinner, and it’d be a fucking shame if you made us late.” Rising to his feet, Clint gestured to the other men. “Let’s get him on the rack.”

CHAPTER 8

“The little miss finally crash out?” Kane took a seat on the back porch steps beside Axel.

“Yeah.” Axel smiled small. “I think the tension was upsetting her. Once everything calmed down, she relaxed as well.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and gazed out across the spacious backyard shared by both houses.

“Are you okay?” Kane asked.

Sighing, Axel ducked his head, rubbing his eyes. “Has Cochise said anything to you about their plans?”

“Maybe. Which plans do you mean?”

Axel straightened. “With everything that’s happened in the last few months, Clint feels like…” He sighed again. “… like they’ve let down their guard, left themselves and their families vulnerable to threats.” Axel looked at Kane. “He wants to rebuild the Sanitini family, get back to what they were when Nathan was running things. He said that back then, no one would’ve fucked with them—wouldn’t have dared abduct or harm their kids.”

“Cochise has mentioned something to that effect,” Kane murmured. “In passing.”

“The thing is…” Axel leaned forward, his heart pinching. “I think there’s a part of Clint that just wants to be a normal, domesticated dad—backyard barbecues, birthday parties, playing with his kids.” He swallowed thickly. “No worries about someone with a grudge—or anyone from the past—showing up to wreak havoc in his life. But he and Cochise… they’ve been too long in that world. They can’t ever be just normal family men.” Axel sniffed as tears stung his eyes. “No matter how much they want to be.”

“I know,” Kane whispered. “But sometimes I feel like Cochise thinks I expect that of him, eventually.” He shook his head. “I don’t. Because of my brother, I’d always hated the gangster world. When I met Cochise, I pushed him away emotionally because I didn’t want to get involved with someone from that world. More than anything, I feared falling in love with him, then having that world take him away from me forever. It took my brother and left Zoe an orphan.” Kane blinked. “If I hadn’t been there to take her in, who knows what would have happened to her?” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t want her to lose another father, and I didn’t want to lose… the man I loved.” Kane rubbed his mouth and leaned forward. “But you can’t fight the heart.” He smiled through a light glaze of tears. “But I don’t have to tell you that.”