J. Ward - Lover Avenged

He was doing his best to arm his troops, even stooping so low as to buy four crates of guns from bikers he’d met in jail over the summer. But it wasn’t enough. His men needed better than rehabbed Red Ryders to take out the Brotherhood.

And while he was at the wish list, he had to have more men. He’d thought the bikers would be a good pool to recruit from, but they were proving too cohesive. Based on his dealings with them, his intuition told him he had to bring them all on or none-because sure as shit if he cherry-picked, the ones chosen would return to their clubhouse and tell their buddies about their fun new job killing vampires. And if he took them all, then he was running the risk of their splitting off from his authority.

One-by-one recruiting was going to be the best strategy, but it wasn’t like he’d had time to do any of it. Between the training sessions with his father-which, in spite of his issues with Daddy-o’s wardrobe, were proving monstrously helpful-and his monitoring the persuasion camps and looting repositories, and trying to get his men to focus on the job at hand, he had not even an hour left in the day.

So shit was getting critical: To be a successful military leader required three things, and resources and recruits were two of them. And although being the son of the Omega gave him loads of benes, time was time, stopping for no man, no vampire, and no scion of evil.

Considering the state of the accounts, he knew he had to start with resources first. Then he could go about getting the other two.

The sound of a car pulling up to the cabin had him palming a forty and Mr. D going for his.357 Magnum. Lash kept his heat under the table, but Mr. D was all Times Square about his, holding the piece straight out, his arm extended in a line directly from his shoulder.

When there was a knock, Lash said sharply: “You’d better be who I think you are.”

The lesser’s answer was the right one. “It’s me ’n’ Mr. A ’n’ your pickup.”

“Come on in,” Mr. D said, ever the good host, even though his.357 was still up and ready for action.

The two slayers who walked through the door were the last of the pale ones, the final pair of old-timers who had been in the Society long enough to have lost their individual hair and eye coloring.

The human who was dragged in with them was a six-foot stretch of nothing particularly interesting, a twenty-something white boy with an average face and a hairline that would be giving up the ghost in another couple years. The guy’s Wonder-bread, who-cares looks no doubt explained why he dressed the way he did: He had a leather jacket with an eagle embossed on the back, a Fender Rock amp; Roll Religion shirt, chains hanging from his jeans, and kicks by Ed Hardy.

Sad. Truly sad. Like putting twenty-fours on a Toyota Camry. And if the boy was armed? No doubt it was with a Swiss Army knife that got used mostly for the toothpick.

But he didn’t have to be a fighter to be useful. Lash had those. From this POS he needed something else.

The guy looked at Mr. D’s welcome Magnum and glanced back at the door as if he were wondering if he could outrun a bullet. Mr. A solved the issue by closing them all in together and staying right in front of the exit.

The human looked at Lash and frowned. “Hey…I know you. From jail.”

“Yeah, you do.” Lash stayed seated and smiled a little. “So you want to know what the good and bad thing is about this meeting?”

The human swallowed and went back to focusing on Mr. D’s muzzle. “Yeah. Sure.”

“You were easy to find. All my men had to do was go to Screamer’s and stand around and…there you were.” Lash eased back in his chair, the cane seat creaking. As the human’s stare flicked over, there was a temptation to tell the guy to forget about the sound and worry about the forty under the table that was aimed at his family jewels. “You been staying out of trouble since I saw you in jail?”

The human shook his head and said, “Yes.”

Lash laughed. “You want to try that again? You’re not in sync.”

“I mean, I’m still keeping up my business, but I haven’t been cuffed.”

“Well, good.” As the guy’s eyes flipped back to Mr. D, Lash laughed. “If I were you, I’d want to know why I was brought here.”

“Ah…yeah. That would be cool.”

“My troops have been watching you.”

“Troops?”

“You do steady business downtown.”

“I make paper okay.”

“How’d you like to make more?”

Now the human stared at Lash, a smarmy, greedy look narrowing his eyes. “How much more.”

Money really was the great motivator, wasn’t it.

“You do okay for a retailer, but you’re small-time right now. Fortunately for you, I’m in the mood to make an investment in someone like yourself, someone who needs backing to take him to the next level. I want to make you not just a retailer, but a middleman with the big boys.”

The human brought a hand up to his chin and ran it down his neck as if he had to jump-start his brain by massaging his throat. In the quiet, Lash frowned. The guy’s knuckles were skinned and his cheapo Caldwell High School ring was missing the stone.

“That sounds interesting,” the human murmured. “But…I need to chill a little.”

“How so.” Man, if this was a negotiating tactic, Lash was more than ready to point out that there were a hundred other dime-bagger dealers who’d jump at this kind of deal.

Then he was going to nod at Mr. D and the slayer was going to cap Eagle Jacket right under that receding hairline.

“I, ah, I need to lie low in Caldie. For a little bit.”

“Why.”

“It’s not related to the drug dealing.”

“Have anything to do with your roughed-up knuckles?” The human quickly tucked his arm behind his back. “Thought so. Question. If you need to keep on the DL, what the hell were you doing in Screamer’s tonight?”

“Let’s just say I wanted to make a purchase of my own.”

“You’re an idiot if you do what you sell.” And not a good candidate for what Lash had in mind. He didn’t want to try to do business with a junkie.

“Wasn’t drugs.”

“Was it a new ID?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you get what you were looking for? At the club?”

“No.”

“I can help you with that.” The Society had its own laminating machine, for fuck’s sake. “And here’s what I propose. My men, the ones to your left and behind you, will work with you. If you can’t be the front man on the street, you can get the merchandise and they can move it after you show them the ropes.” Lash glanced over at Mr. D. “My breakfast?”

Mr. D put his gun down next to the cowboy hat he took off only when indoors and then he popped up a flame under a pan on the little stove.

“What kind of money are we talking about?” the human asked.

“Hundred grand for the first investment.”

The guy’s eyes made like slot machines, all ding-ding-ding excited. “Well…shit, that’s enough to play ball. But what’s in it for me?”

“Profit sharing. Seventy for me. Thirty for you. Of all sales.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t.”

As Mr. D laid some bacon out on the heat, the sizzle and hiss filled the room and Lash smiled at the sound.

The human looked around, and you could practically read his thoughts: cabin out in the middle of nowhere, four guys facing off at him, at least one of whom had a gun capable of blowing a cow into hamburger patties.

“Okay. Yeah. All right.”

Which was, of course, the only answer.

Lash put the safety back on his weapon, and when he put his autoloader on the table, the human’s eyes bugged. “Come on, like you didn’t think I had you covered? Please.”