The Games We Play Read online

  “Well, well, well, Iris.” The Irish accent is unmistakable. I’d heard he was born in Ireland to an Irish Republican Army sympathizer during the troubles, the family moved to America after the signing of the Good Friday Agreement.

  “Thomas,” Iris gasps, and one of the men reaches for her. I feel an irrational need to cut the fucker’s hand off when it takes hold of hers. I wonder who he is to her.

  Cillian gestures to another man. “Cormac’s going to take a look, yeah?” Then he turns and faces King and Clutch. “Uther Hills?” he asks.

  I tune out what is happening between King and Ó Ceallaigh. Instead, I stand guard over Iris.

  “Just a local anesthetic,” Cormac says as he pricks her skin without warning.

  “Don’t put stuff in me without talking to me first,” Iris says, and I instinctively take a step nearer.

  Cormac cleans the wound as Iris screws up her eyes and nose. Her hands curl into fists by her side. She’s persevering. Dealing.

  Brave.

  I hear pieces of the conversation. Cillian asking why his goddamn niece is being stitched up on our pool table.

  King and Clutch explaining.

  And all the while, Iris endures as a row of simple stitches is executed down her thigh.

  Cillian keeps his icy cold glare on me as he approaches the table.

  I want to tell him to get the fuck out of my club. But one of the most important things in warfare is recognizing when you’re up against a bigger army.

  Not only here in this room, but out in the world. Ó Ceallaigh’s organization is a lot bigger than ours.

  “You want to tell me what happened, neacht liom?” I don’t know what the words mean, but Iris lets out a breath and relaxes her shoulders.

  “I saw a truck hit a bike. I called the police. Turns out it was their president. They wanted answers. I gave them the only ones I had. Clutch shielded me while Spark tried to take out the people who shot me. Then brought me here.”

  She’s concise. Factual. And Cillian nods.

  Nothing more.

  No words of consolation for his niece.

  Cunt.

  But I tune him out. Because Iris’s eyes are back on me. Even as the last of the stitches is knotted.

  It’s intense.

  Too intense for someone I met less than an hour ago.

  And yet, something stirs inside me. It must be the surge of adrenaline, endorphins, or something.

  But it’s sure as hell not normal.

  Because I’ve got a longing to see where the brat goes when Iris is fucked hard. Which is a terrible idea, given she’s Ó Ceallaigh’s niece.

  A sterile dressing is applied, then the guy who held her hand lifts her up.

  The fucker is taking her from me.

  I step forward, but King shakes his head.

  I want to defy my president for her.

  They’re leaving, but I know where she lives. I can find her.

  Finally, only Cillian is left, and he squares up to King. “Come near one of mine again, and you’ll be picking lead out of someone you love.”

  And I know I’m fucked because there is no hope I can stay away.

  1

  SPARK

  ONE MONTH LATER

  Darkness cloaks us as I scan between shipping containers. My SIG sits comfortably in my palms, pointed to the ground, as my brothers take care of what we’re here for.

  “Is that the last of them?” King quietly asks me. His dark hair flops over his face as he flicks his cigarette butt into the water.

  I glance inside the shipping container as Saint, our priest, and Switch load another wooden crate into the van. “It is.”

  Niro, our scarred treasurer, is behind the wheel, keeping watch.

  I nudge the shipping container door closed. Military grade weapons do not come cheap, but we’ll make a killing on this load, even with all the bribes we’ve had to pay to make the delivery happen.

  If you ever want to start a fight, ask who actually runs the Port Newark–Elizabeth Marine Terminal on Newark Bay, arguably the busiest shipping terminal on the East Coast.

  Some think it’s New York, some New Jersey, as both states straddle the natural harbor.

  Some think it’s the Italian crime families or the Waterfront Commission of New York Harbor.

  What none of them realize is it’s the Iron Outlaws.

  Sure, we’re dancing across all of them. Taking cash from one, using it to bribe the other. Worming our way in. The Italian families are losing focus as they struggle to make money. Legalizing sports betting and cracking down on opioids trimmed their finances. Even sex work is taking a hit with online apps that allow girls to take control of their clients without even leaving their homes.

  And we’re ready to step right in, greasing palms and brokering deals.

  Owning the port will be the biggest coup the club can pull. It’s a work in progress, but we already have unbridled access.

  It’s midnight, and our goal is to be rid of the weapons before dawn. The less time we have them, the less likely anything can go wrong. It’ll take us a solid ninety minutes to get to the meeting spot. The buyer is meant to be there by three.

  “Let’s get out of here,” says Halo, our road captain, as we all mount our bikes.

  Getting out of the port is smooth, as promised. Five grand gets you a lot of cooperation.

  When we arrive at the meeting point in the Pine Barrens, I set about securing the site.

  “Something’s off,” I whisper to King.

  King lights a cigarette and leans back on his bike. “You always think something’s off.”

  I shake my head. “Yeah, well, I’m usually right when I say it.” My long hair is getting blown about by the late-September wind, so I whip it up out of my face. I’ve got a feeling I’m gonna need my peripheral vision.

  “Yo, Saint,” King shouts to our former-Army-chaplain-turned-biker priest. “You wanna say a blessing or some shit to soothe Sparky-boy?”

  Saint grins. “My pleasure.” He coughs, then makes the sign of the cross in the air. “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage: do not be afraid, nor be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go, fuckers.”

  I shake my head again. “The fuckers God’s words or yours?”

  “All mine. The rest is paraphrased Joshua 1:9.”

  “Yeah, well. Joshua can go eat a dick. I’ve not yet met a man or beast that scared me.”

  King laughs.

  Humor breaks the tension . . . like it always did when I was deployed. I miss my unit. But I’ve found that same camaraderie in my club.

  “Tell Prez I can hear him laughing all the way over here, dumbass.” Switch’s voice rumbles in my ear. He, Halo, and I are the only ones with communication. They’ve got their sights on the entry road.

  “Prez, Switch’s got a problem with your volume.”

  He mimics zipping his lip and throwing away the key before flipping the bird in Switch’s direction.

  “Tell him I saw that too,” Switch grumbles.

  Since I keep that to myself, our silent surveillance resumes. King has a point; I do think something’s off. It always feels off. Ever since the day I missed the suicide bomber in Kabul who killed thirteen of my platoon, guilt has riddled me as surely as a hailstorm of shrapnel. I’ve become obsessed with keeping people safe. The guilt of letting the unit down never leaves. The therapist I talked to after it happened said it was PTSD. Induced hypervigilance shit or something. But I didn’t stick around for the sessions long enough to figure it out. Not when they were trying to tell me it wasn’t my fault.

  Plus, hypervigilance isn’t a bad trait in my line of work. A sergeant at arms has protection written through their core.

  “You see anything, Halo?”

  “Nothing but trees and sky,” he mutters. “Would be a great night for a jump.”

  I look up at the sky, seeing nothing but stars for days. I’ll take the ex-Navy SEAL’s word tha
t it’s a good night to drop out of an airplane.

  I scan what I can see of the tree line. It’s dark. The buyers are Russian. Not gonna ask them what these weapons are for, but I hate the idea they might work their way back to Russian soil. They’re bringing cash. It’s an experiment, selling to them. We don’t know these guys. They’ve got one shot to prove they are legit. Well, as legit as you can be in an underground weapons world.

  Once the deal’s done, we’ll review if we should do business with them again.

  “I can taste whiskey,” Halo mutters. “Gonna drink a bottle of it and pass out when we get back.”

  “I’ll grab tequila and join you,” I say. I love three things. Power, Patrón, and pussy. The power I get from being a true one percenter. Living my life by my own rules. Riding or dying with my brothers. And a night with a great bottle of tequila and high-end ass after a long hard ride on my bike is as good as it gets.

  “Two bikes and a van,” Switch tells me.

  I pass the news along. “They’re here.” When I tip my chin at Niro, he sits up straighter and tucks his phone back into his shirt pocket.

  King stamps out his cigarette in the dirt, fixes the waistband of his denim, and runs his hand over his Glock. I prefer my SIG. One is in the small tool compartment on my bike, handle up, ready for me to grab it if required. Another is holstered beneath my cut, but you can bet I’ll have that fucker out, aimed, and fired in less time than a man can blink.

  “Prez,” I caution as he steps towards them.

  “Sorry, Mom,” he says. But knowing I hate it when he gets ahead of me at these things, he takes two steps back anyway.

  When the bikes and van pull into the clearing, they leave their headlights blazing at us. Obscuring our vision. It’s a dick move, and I pull down my night sights. Don’t give a shit if I look stupid. They cut the glare, and I can make out the guys. Both bald. Both jacked. Neither gets off their bike. A guy climbs out of the van.

  “Name?” Prez says.

  “Viktor,” the guy says with a heavy Russian accent.

  We don’t do the pat down shit; it’d be fucking stupid. We all know we’re packing. And there are more of us than there are of them.

  “You got them with you?” Viktor asks.

  King nods and directs him to the back of our van. “This way.”

  Viktor walks with King. The two bald guys make me nervous, but I know Switch and Halo have our backs. I give them a hand signal to let them know to watch them while I cover Prez.

  They’re making small talk about something as King opens the doors.

  I hear a fluttering of a bird’s wing, followed by the rustle of leaves. Then I hear a creak. Like a rusty hinge. It’s slow. I glance over to King. The Russians aren’t touching their van. Niro is still seated inside ours.

  I glance over to Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

  What was that fucking sound?

  “You see shit?” I whisper so Switch and Halo can hear.

  “Nothing.”

  “Rear doors,” Halo says. I can’t see them from where I’m standing.

  “King,” I say in warning.

  He looks my way, and in the heartbeat it takes him to look up, Viktor pulls his gun and points it at King’s skull while yelling a single word into the night. The van opens and more men pile out.

  It’s a Trojan fucking horse.

  I see the red dot on Viktor’s head. “Go,” I shout.

  Viktor falls to the ground—shot from Switch’s rifle—as I open fire. Bullets from their weapons shatter the glass windows, but Niro is no longer there. He appears on the opposite side of the hood, using it for cover, and I run behind the van to get to King.

  I can’t let another president die on my watch.

  “What the fuck?” he yells.

  I drop to the ground and start firing beneath the van, taking out legs, ankles, anything. Saint is firing from behind his bike, his aim deadly accurate. I see men dropping as Switch takes them out from above. A bullet catches Saint and he’s thrown to the ground as blood stains his shirt. He’s trying to reload, but one of the men approaches him, weapon drawn.

  Saint’s a sitting duck.

  Panic can come later. I jump to my feet.

  “Niro,” I yell. “Take out the ones I grounded. King, give me cover. I’m gonna get Saint.”

  King slams his hand against my shoulder. “You’re not going out there.”

  “I’m also not letting him die.” Because I let that happen once before. Tweedledee creeps towards Saint, who’s crawled behind a large rock. “Just fucking cover me.”

  “Shit,” King curses but complies. Bullets fly past me. I pray his aim stays true as I duck and run until I get to Saint, who’s struggling. I fire twice over the rock. Warning shots. Then I duck back down and reload Saint’s gun for him.

  “Should have stayed where you were. Fuck,” Saint curses.

  “What would Jesus do?” I ask with a grin.

  “Pretty sure he wouldn’t reload a Ruger GP100 with one hand.”

  There’s yelling; a Midwest accent. Then Tweedledee looms over us. I fire four shots in quick succession, and his chest and face explode.

  “Nice one,” Switch says in my ear before he takes out the wheels on the right-hand side of their vehicle.

  And suddenly, there’s only one left, and he’s running into the woods.

  I stand and offer Saint a hand to help him get to his feet. “How bad is it?”

  He looks down at his bloody arm. “Nicked me, I think. But the blood made everything slippery, and I’d not taped the handle of this yet.” He tilts his Ruger from left to right.

  Not something the average person thinks about, how to handle a gun when it’s wet or there’s blood on it. But you’ll rarely find a vet who doesn’t.

  “Fuckers,” King shouts as he stands.

  I tug out my phone. “Track, can you come out with the tow truck and bring two prospects and a full kit?” The full kit tells him there’ll be body cleanup. Shovels. Tarps.

  “Sure thing. Just tell me where.”

  I give him the details. There are six bodies on the ground.

  “There’s still a man in the trees. Don’t lose focus. Switch, Halo, keep providing cover.”

  King walks to their van. “Empty,” he shouts after looking in the back. “They never intended to pay for this shit.”

  “I got Track coming out. We wrap and dump the bodies—shallow grave shit in the woods, stick the bikes in the back of the van, and then tow it. The garage can spray it, change the plates, then sell the bikes and van on.”

  “Not the cash everyone was banking on,” Niro says. “Our van’s got a few holes. Our load is fine though.”

  King tugs at his hair. “I’ll find a new channel.”

  I glance over at Tweedle-Dee. “You hear that guy? Not Russian.”

  King shrugs. “They’ve got allies here.”

  Something skitters down my spine. “Nah. I feel like it’s . . . I don’t know. Shit. Like, we’ve assumed the Russian accent implies Russian sympathies. But what if they are closer to home?”

  Niro is patting the guy down. “No ID, no wallet, no phone. Whoever they are, they didn’t want to be identified.”

  “You think it may be local?” King asks, brushing the dust off his denim.

  “Who knows? Insurrectionists. Militia.”

  Kings kicks a stone by his foot. “Fuckers only get one chance to buy through us. And they’ll pay if we ever catch up with them, because now I’m pissed.”

  The mood follows us home to the clubhouse. I slam the bar top twice with my palm, and a beer and a tequila shot are placed in front of me. I slam the tequila and chase it with large gulps of beer, ready to let the alcohol work its magic.

  “You need a little stress relief?” Kenzie asks, slipping onto the stool next to me.

  She’s squeezed herself into some tight-ass leather pants and a cropped black T-shirt that looks as if it was sprayed over her double-Ds.

  “
You gonna let me fuck those tits?” I ask. Sometimes alcohol and sex are the only way I can fall asleep. Other times, it’s working my body out until the point of collapse.

  Dark brown eyes dance with humor. “As long as you make me come first, you can fuck whatever you want.”

  I grin. Kenzie likes it rough. I’m happy to deliver. “Go strip and get on my bed. I’ll be there in ten.”

  I watch her ass as she leaves, but knock back five more shots before I follow. Because as hot as she is, she doesn’t have the green eyes and yellow raincoat that haunt my dreams.

  2

  IRIS

  “Miss O’Connor, why is Macaroni climbing on top of Cheese?”

  From my spot at the front of the classroom, I look toward the cage that houses the class’s pet guinea pigs. And sure enough, Macaroni is trying his best to have sex in front of my kindergarten class.

  “Oh, that’s a great question, Harry.” Stalling for time to formulate an answer, I place the book I’d been reading to them, a cheerful little book about crayons, on the table and hurry to get the small blanket from the classroom’s little library. While the wound from the gun shot has healed over the past month, my muscles are still a little sore from the recovery. I try to force the memory of that shit show from my mind and focus on my horny pets. “You know, I think Macaroni confused Cheese with his bed. He’s probably really tired. So, let’s let them have a little nap.”

  I throw the blanket over the cage, even as the children edge closer to get a better look. Damn Harry’s parents for donating the pets to my classroom anyway. My gut told me they’d bought them for Harry and had buyers’ remorse. But they donated them so publicly, in front of the class. And the students’ little faces had all lit up so much that I hadn’t had the heart to say no.

  So now I’m buying guinea pig food and straw out of my own salary.

  “But they don’t have beds, Miss Connor,” Thema says, pushing her thick glasses up her nose. There are days I love teaching Thema, quite possibly the smartest child to ever land in my classroom. The little girl is smarter than most third graders. But on days like this, when I sincerely want to pull the wool over the kids’ eyes rather than explain the mating rituals of the Caviidae family of rodents, I wish she weren’t quite so intelligent.