— Chapter 82 —
Runt of the Litter

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N O A H

Nightfall hit us fast.

My mother came home soon after Tat's phone call, none the wiser to Jasper's high. She had no answers when I asked about the supposed errands she'd been running, feigning innocence about her whereabouts for the day. The woman was nothing if not a neverending mystery.

Not long after sunset, Elliot wandered back into the apartment too. Exhaustion made itself apparent in the way his legs stumbled beneath him, and he didn't say much to anyone until he saw me—at which point the exhaustion on his face turned into a featherlight smile.

I'd finally made them all reservations for dinner.

Tonight was something out of the ordinary. Nothing too outlandish for their last day in Boston, but the restaurant was nice enough to put a dent in the month's savings. Elliot and I overindulged in steaks and caviar that evening, with enough wine circling the table to have my mother swaying around in her Prada pumps by the end of it all. Even Jasper dared to enjoy himself a little, finding common ground with Elliot's taste in guitars.

"Are you okay?" the Alley Cat had whispered from beside me, somewhere in the middle of dinner.

Before I could figure out what he'd meant, his small hand had come to rest on my unsettled thigh. I'd been bouncing my leg all night. Elliot had been the only one to notice. Even before me.

With a nod to reassure him, I'd taken his hand into my own, the two tightly clasped together like ropes bound in knots. It stayed like that for a while, hidden beneath the fabric of an ivory tablecloth.

This was something worth protecting.

This was the very thing I was trying so hard to keep safe.

And that night, after they all turned themselves in for sleep, my evening was still far from over.

Grabbing my belongings off the counter and locking the front door behind me, it wasn't long before I made it to Baby sitting alone out in the drive.

That motorcycle was fucking lethal. It was a monster made of cool steel and black lacquer like an oil spill—and she guzzled gas like nobody's business. But hell, when she hit the speeds that made cowards out of men, the perpetual hole in my wallet just felt worth it.

"I'm coming with you."

I hadn't even been able to put my helmet on before those words cut through the midnight air.

I turned to find Jasper. He was standing idle, with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and a crafty look seeping into his amber eyes. The annoyance that shot down my spine was visceral.

"No, you're not," I countered. "Go back inside."

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked in Italian.

"To deal with things. I'll be back soon."

Jasper tilted his head to glimpse the weapon tucked behind the belt of my jeans. "You take a gun with you when you're dealing with things?"

Ah... that. The hem of my jacket must've ridden up enough for him to notice the black metal. I wasn't usually one to carry a gun in my brief, but after tonight, no amount of protection would ever be enough. Tugging the fabric down again, I thought bitterly, He wasn't supposed to see that.

"Go back inside, Jasper."

My brother smiled.

"Sure," he drawled in English this time, puffing out his chest. "I'll just wake up our mother and let her know that her oldest is out playing mafioso in the middle of the night. That'll definitely clear the wrinkles under her eyes."

Blackmail. Yet another thing this family excelled at.

Jasper turned to leave. "See you later, th—"

"Hold up."

He swiveled back around, looking too smug for his own good. "Changed your mind?"

Brat.

Tugging on my strings, he continued, "I mean, we both know how Mom gets about us being involved in this kind of stuff. You'll be getting your ass handed to you for weeks. She might even try to rip your ear off." He blinked. "You know, again."

Despite blatantly trying to extort me, he made a convincing point. Nobody on the planet could scare the shit out of me better than my own mother could. After all, she might have chosen a life of pacifism recently, but my mother didn't become the queen of the Stray Dogs by playing the innocent sweetheart next door. It took a merciless spirit. Cunning. Underhanded tricks, and lots of them.

"This isn't a game," I told my thick-headed brother. "You hearing me? Where I'm going is dangerous."

"No shit."

I watched him help himself to my helmet, locked in a stupefied silence. Apparently stubbornness was a staple of the family genes. That and sheer stupidity.

This isn't happening, I thought. No chance.

If everything went according to plan, then the gates of hell would be opening tonight. This whole thing was high risk, high reward, and I couldn't give myself more variables to account for. Especially not Jasper. But I didn't want to risk hell with my mother, either. The woman would eat me alive and spit me right back out for tainting her fine palate with the taste of biker leather. Not for nothing, she'd once been exceptional at keeping my father's puppets on their toes. Going against her wishes was a quick way of forfeiting your very valuable peace.

Why am I even considering this?

Jasper couldn't be there without a purpose. He'd need eyes on him at all times. He'd need to understand the plan, and he'd need to be smart enough to bolt when shit inevitably went tits up.

The less sensible side of me reared its ugly head.

He could be useful.

My brother shrugged again, those cat-like eyes staring expectantly down his spotted nose.

Damn it.

"Look," I conceded, huffing in irritation. "If you're going to tag along, then you're going to stick to the shadows and do exactly as I tell you. That means what I say, goes. No compromises or workarounds, understand? The last thing I need is more blood on my hands."

They're already soaking in it.

Jasper's lips quirked in satisfaction. "Come on," he said whilst dialing down his hearing aids. "When have you ever known me not to handle myself?"

I watched him strap the spare helmet onto his head and climb briskly onto the back of my motorcycle. Despite having forsworn motorcycles as a kid, the motions came to him as naturally as breathing. But I knew there'd never be a day when Jasper would willingly pick up a motorcycle of his own. Perhaps he was safer for it.

"Is that a serious question?" I signed back to him.

He shrugged. "Fair point."

I started the ignition as he settled in behind me. Signing again, I turned back to mention, "I'll kill you if you're the reason this goes sideways. Just so you're aware."

He laughed and flicked down his visor.

"If this goes sideways," he signed back, "we'll probably both be dead."

I gave him a look. He tilted his head, and even though I couldn't see his face, I knew that smug smirk of his was just as wide as ever.

He settled into a comfortable position and wrapped his arms over my stomach, gripping the hem of my jacket for extra security. "Now mush," he beckoned sardonically. "Mush, boy!"

I bumped my fist against his helmet.

"Just keep that damn thing on and shut up."

===

It wasn't long before my brother became a living, breathing list of unanswered questions.

"Where the hell are we?"

Jasper pulled the black hood off his head and hunched over as he followed me around the corner of a rusted freight carriage. I kept my visor down, hardly able to see more than a few feet ahead under the sky's starless darkness. The two of us were moving in the direction of the noise ahead—a crowd. People had gathered in numbers well into the hundreds tonight, eager to sightsee the evening's promised races.

"Follow me," I signed. "Keep your head down."

"Who are all those people?" he asked, nodding to the scene ahead. It was his sixth inquiry in the last minute and a half.

"This arrangement isn't going to work if you keep asking stupid questions," I snapped warningly.

Jasper rolled his eyes.

A million lights struck us at once as we came upon the crowd. I swept my gaze over the heads of people, trying to gather my bearings and clear my head. It was a lot to take in—between the rumbling of a hundred engines and the roaring chatter of an excited crowd, there was a lot of noise and too many distractions. I'd tried to prepare myself for it beforehand, but preparation only ever went so far.

"Chains should be here by now," I told Jasper as we slithered inconspicuously into the crowd, like sunset shadows bleeding into an all-consuming night. "Keep your eyes peeled for a black pickup."

"Like that one there?"

Leave it to Jasper to spot the things I couldn't. Sure as shit, Chains and his black-lacquered truck sat idle in the middle of a parking lot congested with motorcycles and sports cars. A small group of bikers surrounded him—they wore no distinctive colors, but I knew immediately they were Tats' boys.

Chains didn't bother with hellos. "You've got to be fucking me," he said as we approached. "You brought Blackjack?"

Blackjack—it was a name Jasper had earned himself for his luck in old casino games. Whenever he happened to be around for one of the Chief's usual cook-outs, some of the Stray Dogs would let Jasper play a few rounds at the table, no stakes. Soon enough the name stuck, as people started to notice how rarely he lost a game. They wondered if he'd been able to count cards—except he'd have been seven or eight back then. And that would've been impossible.

At least, that's what they thought.

"He didn't give me much of a choice," I answered Chains. Jasper made no effort to hide the smug glint in his eyes as he approached.

Chains sighed. "What's good, kid?"

"Definitely not your breath."

"Huh?" The biker shot a hand over his mouth. While he was distracted, Jasper bumped into Chains' side. "Oh, ha-freakin'-ha. Very funny. Twerp."

My brother disappeared into the front seat of the pickup truck after that—barely making an attempt at concealing the item he'd so clearly pickpocketed. Thankfully, my amusement at that couldn't show through my helmet.

"He'll stay with the truck tonight. Might keep the little shit out of trouble," I stated. "Oh, and I think he just swiped your wallet."

"Wh—" Hands shooting to check his pockets, Chains quickly protested. "Why, that little—! I taught him that!" He soon groaned in defeat, dragging a hand over his tired face. "Great. You really want to risk having him here?"

I nodded. "Jasper's smart enough to dash when things go sideways. Besides, they all say he's lucky, don't they? We could use some of that."

"Sure. Why not. Might cancel out all that misfortune you're always bringing to the table." Chains plastered on a look of deadpan optimism. "Go team."

My focus scanned blankly through the crowd, teeth catching on the silver pearl studded into my tongue. The two of us were ignoring the big fat elephant on the proverbial train tracks.

"I heard what you did to Ash."

With a tick in his jaw, Chains clamped his mouth shut.

"Care to share?" I pressed.

He ruminated to himself for a moment, as if there was a thought balancing on his lips that he didn't quite know how to get across. Disappointingly, the biker ended up shaking his head.

"No," he decided. "I want the bastard crippled. Not dead."

My brows knitted together. And why exactly would I want Ash dead?

"Doesn't matter now, anyway," said Chains, as if he could read my mind. Some days he probably could. "What's done is done."

"Jesus, Chains," I hissed under my breath. "You ripped his teeth out."

"The bastard deserved it."

The biker's reluctance to cough up solid answers was doing a phenomenal job of tasting my patience. I sucked in a slow breath.

"Did it make you feel better, at least?" I asked.

Chains turned a blanket glare towards the crowd. "Not even close. I'll feel better when Han's dead and Shooter's teeth are strung up in a chain around my throat."

You and me both.

Instead of that, I said, "Anything else I should know about?"

Another beat of silence. Then, he scoffed, and his ocean-eyed stare went ice cold.

"Yeah," he said. "Ash screamed real fucking pretty."

Huh? Whatever I'd been expecting to come out of his mouth, it hadn't been that. As much as I wanted to know more, and as much as I wanted to probe his head for answers, I didn't get the chance. A small mob of bikers had been approaching on our twelve.

"Well, if it isn't Boston's favorite desperado."

"Tats," I acknowledged, meeting the handshake of the ink-covered biker as he stopped before us. "Nice of you not to ditch us last minute. Your men ready to go?"

"Always," he declared. "I brought some of my best—whatever's left of them, at least. They're all fired up and ready to race. Just give us the word."

Chains checked, "You made sure they all put their names down on the line-up sheets?"

"Uh-huh. There're three sets of four races tonight, with thirty-minute breaks between each set. Every set has its own track to keep the cops off the trail." Tats tucked his hands into his pockets. "As far as I know, all twelve runs go for at least a hundred grand—but it changes depending on the stakes, so we can't be sure until the race is set to start."

"When's the first race?" I asked.

"Fifteen minutes."

I nodded. "Okay. You all know the plan. Keep your eyes out for Sage, and if anyone sees Shooter, I want to be the first to know. We all leave the minute they show their faces." Gesturing behind me, I continued, "If they don't, then we'll meet up at the tunnel entrance after the last race—assuming all goes to plan."

Tats snorted his amusement. "When does shit ever go to plan?" Waving his hands to the men behind him, he announced, "Let's go, boys!"

One by one, the bikers cleared off to their positions, leaving just me, Chains and Jasper by the truck. I was about to head off behind them, but Chains stopped me.

"Hey, Edge?" he asked. "Do you really think my breath's bad?"

"No, Chains, I'm not going to kiss you to find out if you have bad breath."

He backed up real quick.

"Woah, woah, what?" Visibly unsettled, he managed an awkward laugh. "Man, very funny. You and your brother. Real comedians."

"Get going, Chains."

He offered up something between a grin and a smirk, heading off with a two-fingered salute. "Already gone."

Once I was sure that Jasper understood his job for tonight, I peeled away into a sea of people, motorcycles and gasoline. Nobody spared me any glances. For someone whose face usually brought nothing but scrutiny and fear, sometimes the helmet was a blessing. It dimmed the noise and darkened the lights, leaving my breaths slow and controlled. Like this, I was just a figure in a crowd.

And I had a plan.

Tonight was phase one. Before we could get any bikers back on the right side, we needed to cut through the wool that'd been dragged over their eyes by Sage, Shooter and Midas. We need to break apart their perceptions and what they knew. We needed them to understand that nothing was being gained here, and that Midas and his races were just a front for something much deeper, much darker.

That's where tonight's races came in.

On account of being short-staffed, I'd made a bargain with the Mayhem Club. Tats and his boys would spend the evening racing through Boston—racking up winnings in the form of duffel bags stocked to the brim with fake cash. Those winnings would be pooled together on the back of Chains' pickup truck, stacked up on top of each other in nice and neat little rows.

All of this was a risk. It broke the code. It meant putting people in death's spotlight, subjecting innocent civilians to horrors they didn't deserve. But I'd exhausted all other options. The races were still up and running, my Uncle's killer was still out there, and Midas was still walking around with the privilege of my gun not being down his fucking throat. If the rest of them could play dirty, it was high time we got ugly too.

If you can't beat them, join them. Then turn them all against each other.

Jasper's only job tonight was to stay with the pickup and count the counterfeit cash in the bags. But the exact total didn't matter. We didn't need to know how much we were winning, because the cash wasn't for spending. But I figured the task of counting it all would keep Jasper occupied and out of harm's way.

Time passed quickly.

Three races in, Tats' boys had already started to rack up bags of cash. I kept an eye on them from my post as they started dumping the duffels onto the back of the pickup.

The crowd around me swayed like ocean waves, lapping against the starting line. I tried not to let their raucous, excited chattering dull my senses—after all, I was the one on lookout, too busy searching for signs of trouble lurking around in the masses of people. I kept keening my head as I weaved around, studying every face as it passed by, hoping to find Han, and hoping that I didn't.

Not because he intimidated me—very few were capable of such a thing—but because I didn't think I'd be able to stop myself from shooting him point-blank in the middle of so many witnesses.

Sage was nowhere to be seen yet.

However, the place was crawling with Pit Vipers, most of whom answered to her in one way or another. Not because she was their leader, but because of the benefits she brought to their table. They offered her Boston's secrets and their protection, and in return, she kept their shelves full with all the drugs they could ever indulge in. That same deal had turned the Pit Vipers into Sage's all-knowing eyes and ears.

Pretty fitting for the city's most notorious drug boss.

Whilst the Stray Dogs were Boston's loyal safeguard against complete and total anarchy, the Pit Vipers were grimy thugs scraped from the very bottom of the barrel. Most of them were hooked to a drug of some kind, making them more aggressive than other clubs. They recited rumours like gospel, no matter how baseless, and were commonly referred to as the laziest pieces of shit in Boston.

By comparison, the Mayhem boys were the most chill. They didn't have much and were smaller than the Pit Vipers in number, but they followed our rules, kept to themselves, and treated each other like family in the same way the Stray Dogs did. They loved pot, loved their music, and loved their women, but loved nothing more than their motorcycles. For that, we could depend on them.

Come on, I thought, scanning the crowd for the umpteenth time. Where the hell are you, Sage?

No dice.

"Calling all riders for the next race of the second session!" a drunken announcer shouted into his microphone. It was wired up to where he sat on top of an old freight carriage, surrounded by bikers who were all so obviously strapped with guns. "I repeat: calling all riders for the three-mile sprint! If that's you, haul your motherfuckin' ass! I'm falling asleep up here!"

A blonde-haired woman touched my arm while I was distracted. "I've seen that helmet before," she purred, batting her false lashes. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

I stared down, at a loss for her name, then moved my attention to where her hand was still lingering on my jacket.

"Doubt it."

Pushing past her, disgust rippled up my arm and crept into the back of my neck. It stunned me to remember the days when I would've willingly embraced that contact—even returned it. Now, I couldn't get out of here fast enough.

I moved to catch sight of Chains' pickup.

It was almost full, the duffle bags overflowing with wads of cash that other passers-by were shamelessly ogling. The truck had started drawing attention half an hour ago. I figured that a group of bikers pooling their winnings was a first around here. It was only a matter of time before we caught the wrong kind of attention—so we needed to get out of here. Soon.

Where's Jasper?

My teeth gritted together. The last time I looked, he'd been sitting on the roof of the pickup, digging obediently through the bags to count the money. Now his space was empty, and his familiar head of half-bleached curls was nowhere to be found.

I snarled. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

One job. One fucking job. That's all the kid had.

I decided against calling Chains to save myself from the shame of my poor judgment. Pushing through the drunken spectators, I ignored their complaints and moved towards the direction of the starting line, focus darting between the masses of bikers and their motorcycles. The last riders had just returned from the previous race. Still, as the hosts were busy distributing the winnings, there was no sight of Jasper.

Wait—there.

Making her way out of the main carriage was Sage, with two bodyguards—bikers—right on her tail. The snake had finally decided to show her gruesome face. I let the flames of my fiery hatred pop the kernel of dread that had sprouted in my stomach.

I have to find Jasper. Now.

We needed to get out of here.

Only, there was a slight problem with that plan. Because I'd just found Jasper. The kid was busy being escorted—no, dragged—right to Sage by a broad-shouldered man with a gun strapped to his belt.

I grumbled in frustration. 

Ma's going to fucking rip my ear off.

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I may or may not have adopted a cat.
Her street name is Fucknugget.