Chicago …
“I don’t know how you do it, but I don’t want you to stop.”
Galen inclined his head to Henry Craine, acknowledging the compliment that had just come from the mob boss’s lips. Craine was the top of the food chain when it came to organized crime in Chicago, and if there was one thing Galen had learned about the bastard in his short term working for the current mob boss, it was not to fuck around with him.
Galen had seen almost all of them come and go; he’d worked for the biggest names to ever grace the newspaper headlines—Colosimo, Torrio and Capone, Ferriola, Carlisi and LaPietra. Rhys and Galen had seen them all rise through the ranks, had seen them dominate and had seen them fall.
“I’ve got another job for you.” Craine slid a manila folder across the table purposefully, his dark eyes on Galen’s face. Galen reached for the thin cardboard, pulling it in front of him and studying it.
The mark was someone Galen had never heard of before. The three grainy black and white photos showed a young man with dark hair and eyes.
“His name is Anthony Allesi. He’s been skimming my product and selling it on the side, lining his pockets with my money,” Craine told him. Galen looked up at the man from under his lashes for a moment, seeing the anger clouding his dark eyes.
“I want him dead, and I want it to send a message to anyone else in my operation who thinks running their own outfit at my expense is a good idea.”
Galen smiled coolly. “It’s no problem.”
“You have twenty-four hours. I want him gone before he can distribute the current cut he’s taken from me.” Craine stood up from behind his desk, offering Galen his hand like he always did. He was firmly of the belief that it wasn’t a gentlemen’s agreement without sealing the deal with a strong handshake.
They shook, then Galen slipped his jacket from the back of the chair and stepped from the room, shutting the door behind him.
Craine’s bodyguards were standing on both sides of the door, passively staring at nothing in particular. Galen could smell the tang of gunpowder on them; it seemed they had both gotten a little trigger happy within the last few hours.
After they handed back his machete in its holster, Galen looked down the hall. A dozen feet away, Rhys sat in one of the chairs against the wall, his expression blank. His eyes cut to Galen when he heard his footsteps.
Galen strolled from the office, the details of his target neatly tucked away in his head. Without needing to look over his shoulder, Galen knew when Rhys pulled up behind him.
“We’ve got twenty-four hours,” he muttered, fixing the collar of his shirt and tucking it under his leather jacket.
Rhys stayed silent, but that wasn’t anything new. The ride down in the elevator was quiet except for Rhys’s steady breathing. They stepped out of the glass and metal building into downtown Chicago, the rush of the night-time pedestrian traffic beginning to thin out. Galen settled his attention on the skyscrapers all around him, thinking.
“I want to take care of this sooner rather than later,” Galen told Rhys.
“Fine by me,” Rhys replied darkly, the malevolent grin in his voice unmistakable, and they turned down an alleyway so they could fade to the address written in the dossier. On the way they passed a man who was just stepping out of the darkness. Their eyes met, and Galen thought he recognized him for a moment. Overhead, the guttural caw of a raven floated over the sound of traffic. Galen turned to watch the man walk across the street, keeping his head down.
“What is it?” Rhys asked, following his gaze.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “I just thought I recognized that guy.”
Rhys squinted after the man for a moment before dismissing him. “Let’s get this hit done.”
Galen shook his head, trying to shake the feeling that he’d seen the man before. “All right, let’s go.”
A moment later, they were standing across from a warehouse tucked away behind some other industrial buildings.
Galen pulled out his machete from the holster under his jacket while Rhys fingered the handle of his hunting knife. Bladed weapons were better than firearms—less noise, more intimate fighting, bloodier deaths. All of these things made Galen tick. It was what made him feel alive.
They both watched on for an hour or so, noting how many people walked in and out of the building, what pieces they were carrying. There were maybe a dozen people inside, Galen thought. A dozen they could most definitely handle. Galen and Rhys were stronger and faster than the humans, who really didn’t stand a chance against a couple of trained killers like them.
“Ready?” he asked the other Mare.
After a curt nod from Rhys, Galen moved towards the building, staying within the shadows to hide his approach. A man stepped from the doorway, huddling up against the brickwork and shivering in his coat. Pulling a cigarette from his pocket, the man put it in his mouth and attempted to light the end. He cursed every time a strong gust of wind extinguished the flame before it could take, eventually turning around and huddling near the wall—turning his back to Galen in the process—and flicking the flint with the pad of his thumb.
Galen could see the glimmer of a dancing flame; it burned bright orange for a moment before guttering out to leave the man’s face in shadows once more.
Fading directly behind the human, Galen drove the tip of his machete straight into the back of his neck, angling the blade upwards into the base of his skull while covering his mouth with a hand. The human dropped to the floor soundlessly, Galen cradling his fall before pulling the knife free and running its sharp edge across the front of his throat.
When the man was quiet, and only the sound of blood escaping his body could be heard, Galen signaled for Rhys to move in. Galen stood up, picking up the body and dragging it out of sight, then followed his best friend into the harshly lit warehouse. Sure they could have faded in, but where was the fun in that?
The humans stopped what they were doing when they saw them both, some stepping back a fraction when their eyes found Rhys. The smell of fear hung heavy in the air, and Galen soaked it up. There really was nothing a Mare liked better.
Galen and Rhys were among the humans before they had time to register that they were under attack, weaving around gun muzzles pointed in their directions and ducking under sharp blades aimed for their chests. Before any blow could land, Galen would fade to a new position, confusing his opponent, opening them up for a fatal hit. He made sure his kills were extra violent—instead of going for a straight slash to the throat, he chose to cut open the humans’ bellies first to let their intestines spill out onto the floor. He materialized directly in front of one human, wrenching the butterfly knife the man had been brandishing free of his hand before he could strike. With practiced movements, he slid the man’s own weapon into his solar plexus before punching the handle in and up, into his heart.
When there was no other movement in the warehouse, Galen looked up to see where Rhys was. The Mare was literally dripping in warm blood, the spray from severed arteries covering his face and neck until only his stark white teeth and pale blue eyes could be seen.
Taking a look around, Galen counted fourteen humans. Their blood was pooling into tacky puddles on the floor around their dead bodies.
“Let’s go find Allesi.”
Stalking through the warehouse, Galen was surprised that he hadn’t already seen the cocksucker. Perhaps he was the kind of man who didn’t like to get his hands dirty. Yeah, that had to be it. After scouring the lower level, Galen moved towards a set of metal stairs. Music was pouring out from under the door of the room perched at the top.
Rhys followed at his back, protecting him against possible attack. There was no doubt in Galen’s mind that Rhys would give up his life for him. His loyalty was embedded in his DNA.
There was a small window beside the door. Galen looked in, seeing the man from the dossier asleep in an office chair—his legs propped up on a desk covered in bricks of white powder. Galen frowned. For someone who was supposedly running a clandestine operation, it didn’t seem smart to fall asleep on the job.
Bringing the tip of his machete up to the glass, Galen tapped once, twice, three times. Allesi awoke with a start. The man blinked dumbly at the bloodied weapon, a crease forming between his brows … then his eyes widened as he realized the blade was attached to a hand and that hand was attached to Galen.
Allesi began reaching under his arm, but Galen stopped him with a measured shake of his head. The man froze, thinking for a heartbeat before going for his weapon in any case. Before Allesi could point the muzzle at the window, Galen and Rhys were already inside the room, sharing the same air, breathing in his fear and his anger.
“Who the fuck—” he sputtered, stopping abruptly when Galen tutted at him as though he were a recalcitrant child. He really was in no position to be making demands. After hauling him out of the chair, Rhys pressed the length of his bloody hunting knife along Allesi’s neck.
“You’ve been a very naughty boy, haven’t you, Allesi?” Galen taunted, looking the man square in the eye. Allesi’s brown eyes widened with fear, a new wave of the acrid stench hitting Galen’s nostrils. He breathed in deeply, holding it in his lungs for a moment.
“Oh, God,” Allesi whispered, realization dawning. “Whatever Craine is paying you, I’ll pay you double,” he said, his voice quivering.
Galen stared coldly.
“I … I can give you a cut of my profits.” Allesi spoke rapidly, his voice getting higher.
“How much?” Galen inquired, meeting Rhys’s eyes with a smirk. He liked this game.
“Three percent.”
“I’m sure you could do better than that,” Rhys murmured darkly beside his head.
Allesi’s whole body shook, his bladder releasing in fear. Galen stared down at the puddle of piss collecting on the floor before looking back into Allesi’s face.
“F-f-five percent,” Allesi stammered.
“Ten,” Galen countered, thoroughly enjoying himself.
The human’s eyes darted around wildly. “Ten,” he agreed, still shaking, still stinking of fear. Galen looked at Rhys and stepped back. The human’s shoulders slumped, his whole body relaxing at his newfound sense of freedom. Allesi had thought his “deal” was enough to change Craine’s order to kill him.
But he was wrong.
Rhys struck like lightning, driving his blade into Allesi’s side.
Allesi screamed out wordlessly, dropping to the ground, clutching his side. Blood gushed from the wound, soaking the threadbare carpet beneath their feet. Galen rolled him over until he was on his back and stared down at him.
“Consider this your one and only warning from Craine.” The words were slow and deliberate, meant to taunt him. Galen stood back up and brought the blade of his machete down across the man’s throat. Allesi’s head rolled beneath the desk, a bloody trail following its path.
Galen met Rhys’s greedy yellow eyes. “Let’s make sure we send the right message.”