It’s from Killian.
Tracked the plates on the assassin’s bike. Registered to an LDS employee. Low-level fuck named Bobby Miller.
LDS as in Langston Defense Solutions.
My blood boils over as I grit my teeth and text back.
You know what to do.
Three dots appear, followed by a skull emoji.
Killian’s on it. Bobby Miller won’t see another sunrise.
But that’s not enough. One dead lackey doesn’t answer the bigger question.
I set the phone down and stare at the door, my eyes narrowing as my thoughts churn through various possibilities.
If the Langstons are involved in this fucking shitstorm—if Malcolm’s working to destroy us from the inside out—then they’ve double-crossed the Callahan Clan.
Malcolm Langston shook my father’s hand and agreed the arranged marriage would signify our mutually beneficial business arrangement.
But it sure as hell is looking like that was a lie from the start. A giant fucking lie he and his sweet little princess might have to answer for…
“How did they fuck it up this time?”
I’m storming through the open industrial-sized garage doors of the clan’s supply warehouse in Red Hook before anybody can answer.
The space is cavernous, comprised of concrete floors and exposed steel beams, the air thick with the stench of stale oil and dust. Rows of coffin-sized crates line the floor, supposedly filled with our first big shipment from Langston Defense Solutions.
Supposedly.
Eddie and Sean share a nervous glance as they tail me through the rows. Their nervousness radiates off them in thick waves, but I don’t slow down. I’m ripping the lid off the nearest crate before either of them can speak, and what I find makes my temper surge.
Half empty. The crate’s half fucking empty.
I move to the next one only to find the same thing. And the weapons that are here? They’re not the latest models we were promised.
They’re outdated. Second-rate.
The kind of shit you’d sell to some third-world militia, not the Irish fucking mob dominating the country’s biggest city.
“This is a joke,” I snarl, slamming the lid back down. “We were promised top-of-the-line hardware. Military grade. This is garbage.”
Eddie steps forward, a zealous glint in his eye. “Maybe we should pay Malcolm Langston another visit. This one a lot less polite and professional than the last time we showed up at LDS.”
I ignore him for the time being. I’m so damn pissed it honestly doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea.
Let Simone’s cousin Karter mouth off like he had the last time—I’ll fucking gut him like a fish and give him something real funny to laugh about.
“Sean,” I say. “Get Malcolm on the phone. Now.”
The redhead promptly pulls out his phone to dial his number. “It’s his secretary, Ronan. She’s claiming he’s out of the office for the day.”
I snatch the phone from his hand and press it to my ear, my voice a low rumble. “Listen to me very carefully, sweetheart. I don’t give a fuck if your boss is out of the office. I don’t give a fuck if he’s on a yacht in the Caribbean or getting his dick sucked in the Hamptons. You better find a way to get a hold of him in the next fifteen minutes or some very bad things are about to happen. Do you understand me?”
The woman on the other end starts stuttering. “Oh… I… I... yes, sir. I’ll call his private number right away. I’ll have him reach out immediately. I promise.”
I hang up and toss the phone back to Sean.