Page 104 of Existential

“Boss,” Crackers says quietly, breaking me from my anger-induced daze. “I just got this from Tuck.”

I take the offered smartphone, tapping the small triangle to play the video in the message. It’s security camera footage, grainy, but clear enough to make out definite outlines. Especially that of our club patch.

Knowing the asshole chooses to keep our colors on while he fucks us over ignites a rage I’ve never felt—even when confronted with Dad and Dana’s death.

My hand shakes, the adrenaline surging through me as I watch the final seconds of the clip to confirm the location. Tuck has safe houses all over the country for his operation shutting down the skin trade, and half of them are anonymous. Which means Digits has walked into one believing it really did belong to the street gang that currently resides there.

He has no way to deny his guilt now. None.

“What the fuck are we waitin’ for?” I say, tossing the phone to Crackers. “Better hope you’ve got enough left in the tank because there ain’t any way I’m stoppin’ this time.”

***

We pull up outside the safe house with Murphy. Our sergeant at arms caught up as we left the clubhouse, asking no questions, just falling into line as we rode out. There’s only three of us, but I can guarantee Digits will be alone. He’s cocky enough that he’d think he could take us on without help.

I gesture to Crackers to head around back, and he takes off up the side path with his gun drawn as Murphy and I approach the front. The door flies open, and some spotty kid who can’t be a day over sixteen bursts through with a handgun held wildly toward us.

One of his messengers, I bet.

“Steady on, boy,” Murphy coaxes. “We’re not here for you.”

“You want anyone in this house, then you got beef with me, old man.”

Jesus. Where do they find these sheep?

“Set it down, okay, and everybody goes home today.” I step toward him, and he swings the weapon toward me.

“Stop right there. Only person leaving in a body bag is you, asshole.”

Kid has no idea what hits him. I take his forearm and twist, distracting him enough that Murphy can duck in and relieve the boy of his weapon. He drops the clip from the gun and flicks the bullets into his palm one by one as he stares the kid down.

I check over the boy’s shoulder, expecting company, yet the house is eerily quiet. What you doin’, Crackers?

“Here’s a tip,” Murphy says as he shakes the bullets in his hand. “If you’re goin’ to be the fuckin’ guard dog for a gang house, at least get some lessons in self-defense.” He pulls his arm in and then flings the handful of bullets out across the lawn, tossing the parts of the gun in the opposite direction. “Fetch.”

The kid scrambles for the front steps, but much to our amusement, he doesn’t head to retrieve the weapon. He takes off down the street, half running, half walking, trying to retain some sort of image as he does.

I shake my head and hold my weapon out before me as we approach the doors. The single-level dwelling is rectangular in shape, a central hallway running front to back between the two halves. The back door is ajar, which indicates Crackers is already inside. He meets us as we finish sweeping the right of the house, having come up empty on the left.

“That kid wasn’t alone,” I whisper, “otherwise he would have run before we even saw him.”

Murphy holds up a hand to ask us to stay put, and then quietly backtracks to the front of the house. He disappears outside, returning a short time later.

My heart races with impatience to get to Dagne. What the fuck could that sadistic asshole have done by now?

“Place has a basement,” Murphy whispers.

“I never saw a door,” Crackers whisper-hisses, brow in a hard line.

“Well then,” I grit out. “We check again.”

The guys split off in different directions, leaving me to retrace my steps through the front rooms. The house is filthy clean, if that’s even possible. Everything’s stacked away, nothing on the floor, but there are piles and piles of useless shit everywhere: magazines, washed out food containers, unopened rolls of dishcloths, and a box of fucking diapers. What the hell?

I guess when Tuck calls on these places, he needs them to be equipped for whatever comes through.

Crackers enters the bedroom where I stand at the foot of the single bed, scratching my temple with the gun.

“I don’t know man,” I say with a shrug.