IT’S NO MORE than two hours into our flight when my phone rings, luring me from my state of restless sleep. From the nightmarish reverie of Bronson tied to that damn chair, of Max demanding the Cosa Nostra give him Dustin’s head, of my little deer screaming for me to punish her.
Protect her.
Stay with her.
When I’m beside her, below that damn dreamcatcher, my vicious memories seem to pardon me. Her ideals are a ridiculous comfort, and her soft body settles my pulsing heart.
Blanking my mind.
Sleep a quiet state.
Without her, I’m pulled from this half-dream condition and sit up. Retrieving my phone, I frown at a notification in my inbox from an unknown number. The beginning of said message visible: I have the little—
Ignoring the ring, the incoming call from Carter, as it beckons me to answer it, glued to the message—
Immediately stilled. Ice slides through me. My world blurs around the edges when I open it.
It reads: I have the little Butcher.
All I can hear is my heart between my ears, not the humming of the plane or the engine. Only a deep, thundering drum of hatred in my mind. Carter continues to call, but I decline, and instead dial the unknown number.
‘Clay Butcher,’ Dustin’s deep voice rumbles through the phone, his delight hitting my ears like a blade, cutting through ice. ‘It’s been many years.’
‘Talk.’ I lock my teeth around the word, staring dead ahead, unable to form further conversation while also appearing in a state of calm. Indifferent. Impartial. That’s the power stance, and I’m balancing on the cusp of my control.
Don’t feel.
I hiss the rage through my teeth, and Bronson and Max both become alert to my change in demeanour. They watch me closely, and I stare ahead with rage a red blanket over my focus.
He goes on, ‘The security you have in Dubai is impeccable. I applaud you. I’m, of course, disappointed you didn’t seek a safehouse in Indonesia. I would have been happy to see you there. But you knew better. Vinny gave that away. That was a pity. I was fond of him.’
‘Talk.’
‘You see, I picked your little brother up trying to get back to the District on a commercial flight. He’s slippery, isn’t he? A little too clever. Even for you. Even for Malik.’ He laughs loudly. ‘Even for dozens of your soldiers.” His chortles continue, stoking the fire inside me. ‘The only way we caught on to him was because we saw a young man wearing Malik’s hotel staff uniform, with the remains of a boxing match across his face. Swollen eye. Split lip. On closer inspection… blue Butcher eyes. It was the little legend, for sure.’ He pauses on another condescending huff of amusement, and my knuckles run cold, losing blood, as I fist the phone. ‘He always was the invisible Butcher, wasn’t he? The forgettable one.’
I bite back words, using my silence to speak volumes as nothing productive can come from the turmoil heating my Butcher head to an inferno.
‘Okay then, Clay. Let me make this clear. It’s a simple one. Bring me my daughter, and I’ll trade you your little brother. Seventy-two hours. That’ll give you time. Meet me out past the docks. There is an old campground. The fire circles it but for one entrance in and… one out. Be there. Come alone but with your brothers and bring my daughter with my unborn grandson. In return, I’ll give you an unharmed little Butcher. But if you don’t, if you play me—’
He pauses, and my eyes mist over with red dots of rage.
‘I’ll pluck your little brother’s clever brain out through his nostrils while he blinks up at me.’
The phone call dies, and my hollow stare crosses the plane, meeting the dark gazes of my brothers. Their sense of danger fine-tuned to the discomfort in my usually unaffected manner, to the shaking of my rage-filled body.
I’ve failed them.
