Which just meant the dog was as nuts as the rest of them.
“The guy’s not a trained fighter,” V pointed out from his frilly silk chair. “And he’s emotionally involved. That’s a recipe for disaster if you’re talking about being out in the field. Why are we bringing a liability into a situation that’s already unstable?”
As Rhage and Butch stared at him like they were debating who had to answer the rhetorical, V looked around at all the French blue—and pictured the room redecorated with blood-red drapes and black walls. Maybe a rack in the corner. A display of whips and chains just to set the mood right.
You know, instead of Marie Antoinette, more like Metallica meets dungeons, no dragons.
No offense, Rhage, V thought as he took out a hand-rolled.
Across the way, the great Blind King leaned into his desktop, Wrath’s heavy upper body flexing, the black muscle shirt he always wore stretching to accommodate the shift in bulk as he plugged his elbows into the blotter. The tattoos of his lineage, which ran up the insides of his forearms, flashed their design, particularly as he church-steepled his fingers.
“He knows how the prison camp runs, though.” The King’s wraparound sunglasses made the rounds among the troika, connecting the dots between Rhage and Butch on the sofas and V on his satellite bergère, even though the male couldn’t see. “That’s helpful intel. He knows the people in there, the power structure, the way it functions.”
“But that was before.” V recrossed his legs and sank further into the down-stuffed cushion under his ass. “At the new site? Who knows what it’s like. And if we find it—”
“When,” Wrath cut in.
“—I don’t want to go into a raid worried about someone getting popped because they’re having a moment with their long-lost buddies. We’ve got the full Brotherhood, the Band of Bastards, and the other fighters to coordinate. That’s a lot of moving, stabbing, shooting parts—and we’re all trained for this shit. I mean, Christ.”
Over by the crackling fire, Rhage cocked an eyebrow. Then reached into the pocket of his SUNY Caldwell sweatshirt and pulled out a bag of M&M’s.
Fuck off, V mouthed as the brother jogged the shit.
“It’s the first rule of combat,” V continued. “Don’t bring civilians into a fight. You’ll just end up saving them instead of actually getting the job done.”
Butch, who was dressed in one of his slick Tom Ford suits, put his dagger hand up. “I think the Jackal’s got a helluva lot of heart, and I’m not sure why locking him out is a thing. We’re just looking for the place. When we find it, he can dematerialize to safety.”
“You think he’s going to do that?” V couldn’t believe he had to argue the obvious. “You really think that guy with ‘a helluva lot of heart’ is not going to try to save his little friends the second he gets the coordinates?”
On that note, V started patting around for his lighter so his nicotine delivery system could get its groove on. When he couldn’t find the damned thing, he cursed himself.
How was it possible that he’d left his Bic behind? Oh, right. Up until about five minutes ago, he’d been so relaxed and loose, he hadn’t assumed he’d be smoking anything. Then this bright idea had been floated out at what was supposed to have been a brief, nothing-new-on-theprison-camp-but-we’re-going-back-out-on-the-streets meeting.
No wonder yoga had to be done three or four times a week to work for most people. Calm had a shelf life only as long as your next crisis.
“I think the Jackal’s earned the right to choose.” Butch shrugged, those hazel eyes focusing on the middle ground in front of his face, as if he were gathering his thoughts. “Like Rhage reported, the poor sonofabitch didn’t want to leave the other prisoners behind and hasn’t gotten over it. If that’s the crucible he wants to fall on, who are we to stop him? It matters how you leave things—and who you leave behind.”
So V’s roommate was thinking about his partner again.
Great.
V started patting pockets on his chest that he didn’t have.
On the far side of the coffee table, Hollywood jostled the M&M’s bag again, a soft rustling rising up from the candy.
Fuck off, V mouthed.
Why? Rhage lip-sync’d back. You know you’ll feel better—
“I don’t feel bad now!”
“What?” Wrath demanded.
V burst to his feet, and went over to try to be casual by the marble fireplace. “Nothing. I’m fine—I’m perfect.” He glared at Rhage. “Look, the Jackal has a mate now. A son, too, from what I’ve heard. He’s got a shot at living his life. He needs to count his fucking blessings and sit on the sidelines, true? This isn’t his business.”
Over at the desk, Wrath shook his head. “I think maybe you’re a little off today, V. Are you hungry or something?”
“Maybe too sober?” Rhage added helpfully.
“I’m fucking fantastic. You want me to drop and give you ten to prove it?”
One of Wrath’s black brows lifted over his wraparounds. “You don’t usually worry about other people’s family lives. Especially ones you don’t know.”
“Fine, a hundred. We’ll do a hundred. Just to prove I’m great.”
V dropped down to the antique carpet, punched his palms into the delicate, swirly rug, and assumed a plank position. Then he pumped it out.
“One, two, three—”
“It’s the Jackal’s choice,” Butch said over the counting. “That’s my point. If it were me, I’d be eaten alive by the fact that I didn’t get others out.”
“—eleven, twelve—”
“Is he really doing push-ups,” Wrath muttered. “Jesus, V, give it a rest.”
“—eighteen, nineteen, twenty—”
“No one is paying attention to your pneumatic display.” The King cursed. “Can one of you get him back on track? And I’m going to let the Jackal—”