Page 251 of Five Brothers
“Enjoy your whore,” Milo bites out. “You dirty piece of Swamp shit.”
Balling my fists, I pull back from Krisjen, holding her eyes.
And she sees it. “Macon …”
“I won’t kill him.” I kiss her again and then push her behind me, dropping the knife and grabbing Price by the collar, hammering my fist down onto his face.
“Oh, Jesus,” my sister gripes.
Milo falls to the floor of the bridge, and I raise him up again, hitting him so hard, a slice of pain hits my knuckles like I’ve been stabbed.
I shove him to Santos. “Get him in the truck.”
He throws him over his shoulder and carries him off the bridge. We all follow.
“What are you doing?” Krisjen asks.
“Just taking him home.”
We climb into the cab of the vehicle, Santos and Milo in the bed with Dallas and Trace and the women in the back seat.
Army drives as rain starts to fall, but we’re in St. Carmen’s town center before it starts to pour. We cruise past restaurants, the dressshop where Liv worked, and the Harbor Point Fishing Boat. We coast through the roundabout.
People eat under awnings on the sidewalk and watch us pass, and I’m guessing that it’s my truck, and not that we’re speeding, that catches their attention. Coasting into a parking space, Army ignores the meter, and we both hop out, heading to the tailgate. Dropping it, I take Milo from Santos and don’t even bother standing him up. Dragging him as he kicks and tries to get his feet under him, I haul him over to the police station, seeing Chavez slowly descend one step at a time down the station stairs.
I drop Milo at the foot of the steps. “Tell your superiors to keep their trash out of the Bay,” I tell the officer.
Milo spits blood, coughing as he tries to stand up. “Arrest him,” he sputters.
“Shut up,” Chavez warns him.
Milo pushes himself to his feet. “Arrest them!”
I turn, finding Krisjen, but then her eyes go wide.
“Macon!”
I look behind me, seeing Milo come with his fist cocked. He hits me to the ground, my cheekbone slamming against the pavement. I wince, the cut in my skin spreading like a fire over my face. I try to push myself up, shaking my head clear, but I see something out of the corner of my eyes and look just in time to catch his leg before he kicks me.
I grab him, yank him, and push myself up, slamming him in the jaw.
He falls to the ground, and I climb to my feet, a crowd growing around us. Chavez remains on the stairs.
I circle Milo, waiting for him to try again.
He rises, zones in on me, and then … He shoots off, rushing me. Slamming into me, he pushes us to the pavement, and I feel the pebbles in the street dig into my leg. My elbows scrape against the road.
We roll, I straddle him, my blood spilling onto my clothes from the cut in my face. I punch once.
And then again. His eyes roll into the back of his head, and I stand up, take him by the collar, and drag him back to the steps.
Chavez looks down at the kid, not moving to help him.
I take a step back, and another. And another.
Milo is stupid, but he’s a fighter. It’s always fun with someone who doesn’t know when to quit. The next time will be especially enjoyable, because he’ll be older. As will his friend Callum Ames. Taking them down will be an actual challenge. Thank God.
I lean against the tailgate, looking at the diners as the cops spill out of the station, and Bay people who work in their restaurants stand paused with their trays.