1:13 Ron Weasley with a Mullet, By Vince

“I was too upset, Nicky. It was a baby! Who could ever do something like that?” The woman goes back and forth, while I hold my breath.

“Besides, the fact I sound like a walking frog fart from swallowing bay water, my telling the authorities that a hundred thousand jewel town car was going into the slums is ridiculous enough!”

Yeah, we definitely stick to our side of things. As much for the treaties involved as the guarantee of being murdered and picked clean before our bodies are cold.

Tio was supposed to be with his nanny, Maria, and Rourke’s man, Timms. Both being drugged and tied up in the coat closet of Ana’s charity event was what unlocked the hell of my evening.

Tio being scanned into the local hospital had them calling me, but no one was giving clear answers on anything. I’m really praying that the ‘Dad’ lives because while women are off limits, there is nothing that the cut man to my left can’t get.

Those onyx eyes and raven locks don’t subtract, only add to the Grimm Reaper vibe Luke’s putting out. Obviously knowing exactly who the pair are talking about, and what this situation is.

“Of course I reported it,” the woman sniffs, bringing me back to the conversation. The response is hesitant, defensive at best.

Not that I blame her. Having as many as I do in my pocket, doesn’t change the fact that the South is lawless. I’m sure that the precincts down there are as crooked as it gets.

She’s been through enough, given me enough, but I’ll take everything I can get to put this situation to bed.

“Even if I’m about as useful to them as a vomit flavored lollipop after Voldemort, they still could have been nicer about it.” The gripe sounds more insecure for some reason.

“Well, what did you tell them, honey?” Nicky asks gently.

“What I saw!” She shrills back. “I mean, every one has seen Harry Potter,” the woman is back on the defensive. “You’d think telling the blue boys that Ron Weasley with a mullet, in a silver version of the flying car would be enough to go on!”

Great. I owe my son’s life to a lunatic.

“Instead, they looked at me like I was a few marbles shy of a full set!” I wince feeling that particular accusation a little too personally.

She’s not wrong about everyone and their mother knowing the franchise. Crazy as it sounds, it’s a reference even Luke gets, given my cousin Ana’s obsession with Harry Potter.

That and Robert Kinney’s idiot grandson being the only person I know who believes he can make mullets a Fey trend. The fact that he’s a ginger doesn’t hurt either.

“I realize my jacket says I’m as stable as a wacked wombat, but they could at least pretend to follow up. Even if they didn’t believe the credibility of the intel, it was still a baby!”

Wacked wombat or not, the angel somehow fell into my son’s path, gave me everything I need to put this to bed.

I’ve also never left an unpaid debt.

“Grab her,” I snap at Vance before facing down half rather than a full room of family heads that don’t seem to have any clue as to why I’ve called them. Including the Russian.

I clarify the situation. Counting who’s here and who isn’t. “The boy she is referring to is my son, and by morning the Kinny’s syndicate will be in Luke’s basement.”

I won’t thank them, but it does give me the excuse to put the Triad I actually trust where I wanted them in the first place.

Anyone who isn’t already on their knees begging for mercy, is praying. Stepping back in the kind of way that says I’m Alpha, they’re omega, and I lay out, in no uncertain terms, everything that’s about to happen to the Kinneys.

I don’t give a fuck that it’s Central, or that I’m breaking my own rules as far as that being neutral. Anyone involved in the plot has ten seconds to get a bullet in the brain, or deal with the horseman of the apocalypse standing next to me when I find out about it later.

After several uncountable minutes of every single one of the ‘dons’ begging if not arguing and pointing fingers, I hear a grunt, gasp and crash.

“Holy Mary, mother of biscuits and flapjacks!” Even Luke twitches. His long face and ears tip to the non-curse. I assume Vance has appeared, and she’s calling Nicky back.

Vance won’t hurt her, but isn’t a small dude by any means.

A new line connects to a voice comparable to bourbon. Smooth as silk, rich as honey and the burn that travels with it through every inch of your body. “Hey baby girl, I was just......”

“Ras...Mm..muh.. n.. puh.pp..pie....” I have no clue what the stammer is supposed to be, but he does.

“Baby, I’m here,” the man reassures in a way that a dom would. “I need you to use your words.” It’s a push more than a coax, but he’s got complete calm and utter patience.

More or less proving the dynamic in my mind. “Why are we having Raspberry pie with Mutton?”

“Pic,” her voice is as breathless as it is shaken. I can practically hear her teeth chattering as she gulps, “A..n...l..xx.”

“Good job, baby girl.” That honey tone just took a turn from understanding to dead serious. It’s deeper, firmer, and far less encouraging as another dial goes out. “Breathe and tell me how long is left.”

“No time,” she grits the panic. “Need Mutt!” As she says it, presumably another phone connects because there is no break in their conversation.

“Mutt, class x orc. Walk me through, brother.” Even without the gold giant blowing like Mount St. Helen in my ear, I know that this situation just went to shit.

No ordinary dom. No ordinary little. “Did I just hear orc?!” It’s so loud I swear the speaker is going to break with Rourke’s roar or pop out of my ear. “Get the fuck out! NOW!”

“No time,” according to the pair, I’m not sure if he’s ignoring or just can’t hear with the heightening purr of his engine. Rourke just floored it.

“Mr. Pib,” it’s not a question any more than it is a drink suggestion. It’s one of those universal safe or code words that I shouldn’t know because I was never in the forces.

Pib is Paint it Black, as in the Rolling Stones’ song.

Anyone turning it on or using the phrase that sounds like a knockoff of a brand name soda is really saying shut the fuck up and or get the fuck out.

Just like the US has DEFCON numbers, our military has colors, and black is definitely the time to panic. Well, in our terms. We don’t freak out like the female croaking, more than confirming step-by-step instructions.

My chances are slim to none that she’s going to disarm it, but he tells me to ‘sit tight’ regardless. Rourke’s voice is low, serious, and he’s not bothering to add the similar honey or coaxing notes the other dom is.

“Unless you have time to make it ten blocks, make your peace, Vince. Orcs are nasty, but x class were wiped off the map because they are dirty.

It’s not a blast you want to survive because the chemical agents involved put Luke to shame. So if they can’t disarm it, blow your brains out before that clock hits zero.”

It’s as much his ragged and rasped voice as the fact that all background has stopped that tells me it’s as serious as it gets.

Rourke’s vehicle isn’t moving. He’s not even trying to make his way to me. The silence on his end is every bit as jarring as the most twanged version of a hick accent I could imagine goes through the disarming process.

So far, all the girl can manage is check, or a squeak in what feels like a hundred steps and ninety-second eternity.

‘Alex’ has been keeping a ten-second interval count, and we’ve gone to twenty.

Unless she is the first person in the history of time to have steady hands when hyperventilating….. This is it.

I draw my gun on Luke, pressing the barrel to his temple, and only the robot’s black eyes move to me from their corners. “Pull the chip,” the southern fellow urges at Alex’s ten count.

Taking a breath, I cock back the hammer and wait. Closing my eyes making sure that he won’t suffer any more than me, I hear the slip of Rourke’s mouth breathing in my ear.

“CLEAR,” breaks through the space, and I think everyone who’s the wiser of what’s involved shits their pants. Well, all save Luke glaring at me when I sink to the floor and her dom showers her with praises.

“You did so good, Kit Kat. Amazing baby girl.” Something that Rourke would say or do, accompanied by a thousand kisses.

“Top, Rocco’s team is two minutes out,” the Texan breaks into the moment.

“Baby, can you get to the tree fort?” Alex asks, and she confirms that she’s on her way. At least that’s what I assume with the panted version of ‘uhnhguh’, being doted on once again.

“Good job, baby. Let me know when we can have ice cream with that cake.”

Rourke’s engine is roaring again. “Blow out. Blow out. Blow out,” and apparently Lucian’s tipped ears aren’t just for show because he’s all but dragging me up the stairs and out the back alley.