Page 123 of Connor's Claim

On his patch of grass, he stilled then slowly turned. To face what, we couldn’t see.

“The fuck you doin’ out here?” a voice challenged him.

“My dad called.” He shoved the phone in his pocket, leaving the line connected.

Quickly, Arran muted our end.

“Thought you were an orphan?” The man prowled closer, a slice of streetlight falling over him and giving me an identification. Fifties, smartly dressed. He was Bronson, Red’s right-hand man.

Convict stayed silent.

“And who’s that Rachel bitch you’re trying to find?” Bronson shoved Convict’s chest.

I jerked upright. Arran laid a pausing hand to my arm.

“My sister.”

“More family climbing out of the weeds. Funny, that.”

I didn’t like his tone. Or the way he was closing in. Convict was taller than him and bulkier, but Bronson was twice his age and quick with deadly anger. And with his fists. I’d gone toe-to-toe with him once but nearly lost my life in the process.

Convict could fight, but Bronson was a stone-cold killer.

“Seems to me Red made a mistake with you,” Bronson pondered. “He jumped at the chance of bringing in one of Daniels’ crew and didn’t think through the consequences. Such as where your loyalties lie.”

“Arran Daniels kicked me out after he caught me working for you,” Convict bit back.

“Shut your fucking mouth. I’m thinking here.” Bronson held his gaze on Convict. “Red’s out, so I’m running the show, and he’s been blinded by pussy and power. A hundred people watched that spectacle of your exit. Some came running to me. Said you’d gone missing for weeks then were dragged through Daniels’ club, with the man himself making a drama about kicking you out. Never done that with any other reject, far as I’m aware. So why you, unless to draw attention to his spy in the making?”

What happened next moved so fast it took me by surprise. Bronson snapped out an arm and hooked Convict by the throat, then dragged him backwards into the shadows. The call disconnected, leaving dead air. Without the light on them, I couldn’t see shite, except for when Convict’s legs abruptly stopped kicking.

The two of us leapt to our feet.

Arran swore. “What the fuck just happened?”

My heart hammered. “He’s been made. And unless Bronson learned a chokehold in the past few weeks, I think he jabbed him.”

“Fuck. Fuck!”

My friend crept from the window, the chair he’d appropriated in his hands and anger directing his movements. Emotion held his features, and he went to throw it, catching himself before he made a clatter that would have people coming to investigate our hideout.

I paced after, horrified at Convict’s fate and the knowledge we’d gained.

One thing was certain, we couldn’t plan here.

“We’re leaving,” I stated.

“Or we walk straight in and get him back.”

“Not like this. I don’t want to explain to Genevieve why I’m bringing home your corpse when we could’ve done this another way. We’re outnumbered, and Leesh is still missing, too. We’re doing this right.”

Catching Arran by the shoulder of his t-shirt, I hauled him with me down the stairs to the exit.

“Give me your keys,” I ordered.

Arran handed them over, and I passed them to the waiting crew member who’d posted sentry while we watched. Then we climbed into my vehicle unseen.

Down the road, I smacked the steering wheel. “Bronson never messed with sedatives in the past. He’s too much of an old fucking dog to pick up a new trick. But the way he took Convict down…”