Page 9 of Damon
“Ouch,” Hunter interjects. “Fucking harsh, Chase.”
“But true,” I admit honestly. “I can’t put my money on one person. I’ve ruffled more feathers than I care to admit within my police tasks, never mind what we do here. Drug dealers, murderers, thieves…so many who would be happy to see me ended.”
“But this wasn’t about killing you,” Harrison adds. “If they wanted to get rid of you, they would have targeted you. This was someone who wanted to hurt you.”
“Or warn you,” Russell mutters.
“Warn me? They killed her. It wasn’t a fucking warning.” He shrugs, unflustered by my words. “We know fuck all, so let’s move on to something we can actually get results from tonight. I don’t want to think about the past few weeks. Let me pretend it didn’t fucking happen. For one night, at least.”
All eyes in the room move around each other trying to assess what to do—whether they should continue discussing Connie’s case or move on. Tonight, my dead wife is the last thing I want to talk about. I’d rather sit here and listen to them all ramble on about drug deals or sex trafficking. Whatever other crime is taking place other than the one that has affected me personally.
“We will have a visitor soon,” Hunter says. He claps his hands together and grins.
“What, here?” Russell snarls.
“Yes, here. It’s where we are, isn’t it?”
“Do you hand out our address to every Tom, Dick, or Harry to come up here for a cup of tea? Shall we add a fucking signpost? The Level, this way.”
Normally, this exchange would have me in hoots of laughter. Today, I only feel a minute lightening in my chest, a tiny bit of relief amongst the constant excruciating pain of loss.
“Don’t be an idiot. I thought McKinney may need something to punch,” Hunter continues. “And I have an acquaintance needing some training. He caused a small issue with a recent job.”
“What kind of job?” Harrison asks.
“Car sales.”
“The shipping container car sales?”
Hunter nods, and Harrison’s face twists in displeasure. “Is this the idiot who managed to get the container searched at the dockyard?”
“The very one. He needs to learn to keep his mouth shut and stick with the plan. Two million pounds worth of sports cars impounded with no fucking chance of getting them back.”
“Ouch,” Connor interjects.
“Not as sore as my ass when the customers found out they wouldn’t be receiving the goods.”
“I assume these goods were stolen,” I add.
“The word stolen is so severe,” he replies. “I prefer acquired and being rehomed to more loving owners.”
“While lining your own pocket.”
“And yours.”
I glare at him even though I know it’s true. “You’re right, it will be good to have something to punch.”
“Exactly. Now, let’s get ready for the poor bastard’s arrival. Waite, do you have that plastic sheet you insist on putting down?”
“Fuck, do you plan to kill him?” Harrison moans as he runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Blood is hard to fucking clean, and Mrs. D doesn’t do that shit. It’s me that ends up on my hands and knees, none of you bastards.”
“Kill him, doubt it. Remove part of him, possibly.” Hunter beams manically—he gets extremely high on violence. This is Hunter’s happy place. “Teach him a lesson, most definitely. We all know McKinney has the best punch, so he can break a few ribs before I start making some artwork.”
Thirty minutes later, a bear of a man is escorted into the boardroom by two of Hunter’s henchmen. Their guns are trained at his head. I assume he didn’t come particularly peacefully.
“Good evening, Mason, isn’t it?” Hunter says. “Men, lower your weapons and leave. There’s no need for unnecessary threats. We’re merely here to have a conversation.” The men follow his instructions, and we all watch them leave.
“A conversation,” the man called Mason snarls once they’re gone. “Those two knuckleheads attacked me in my apartment and dragged me here. If you wanted to see me, Hunter, you only had to fucking ask.”