Vice and Void (The Savage Wolves Brotherhood #1)

18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Callum

“Twice in a week?” Kane said with a grin as he measured the alcohol and poured it into the bowl filled with poppy seeds. “That’s got to be some sort of record.”

“Shut up, Kane.”

“What’s a record?” Rocco asked, reaching over Joanna's shoulder and plucking a breadstick off the baking sheet. Callum's mother slapped his wrist with the sauce spoon, sending red marinara flying across the kitchen.

“How often he’s managed to fuck things up with Dakota,” Kane replied as Rocco shoved the entire breadstick in his mouth and sent Joanna a garlic-filled smile. “I don’t think you did that while you two were together.”

“I swear to the gods…”

“I thought I heard you fighting,” Rocco cut in as he collapsed into a chair at Joanna and Duke’s kitchen table. “Heard her yell at you clear through the glass window and over Ace’s terrible fucking music.”

Joanna slid on an oven mitt and grabbed the tray of breadsticks from the counter. “What did she do now?” she asked as she set the tray onto the cork pad in the middle of the table.

“Nothing,” Callum mumbled. “Just some bullshit between two people who shouldn’t have bullshit between them to begin with.”

Joanna planted a hand on her hip and leaned onto the back of Rocco’s chair. “You be careful with that woman. She’s—“

“Mom, enough,” Callum snapped. From the corner of his eye, he saw Joanna straighten, a shadow of hurt passing over her face. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to worry about her anymore. She won’t be coming around.”

“Seriously?” Kane retorted, the grin falling from his mouth. He pushed the bowl toward Rocco, who slid plastic wrap over it before depositing it onto the butcher’s block counter to soak. “She did three sessions trying to break up the scar tissue in my arm and look.” He lifted his arm to flex the tips of his fingers.

“We’ll find someone else to do it, baby,” Joanna said as she turned to grab the steaming pot of pasta and sauce from the stove. “Someone better.”

Callum swallowed back the callous retort that burned the back of his throat. There wasn't anyone better. He had let twelve years of anger boil to the surface, striking Dakota with words he didn't really mean. There was a brief attempt to reason with himself: she didn’t know anything, she didn’t know him, she had no fucking right. But he didn't believe any of it, and he was just the asshole who shoved her away.

The sheer pain that flashed through her green eyes was comparable to being shanked between the ribs. On second thought, he would have preferred that.

The front door opened, briefly revealing the well-kept garden and freshly cut lawn before Duke let the door swing shut. He put his motorcycle helmet on the entry table amongst the line of Rocco’s and Callum’s before tearing off his boots.

“I’ve got news, Callum,” Duke said as he entered the kitchen. He swooped down to give Joanna a quick kiss on the temple before sitting at the head of the table. “About the Vipers.”

Rocco lifted his head, his gaze flicking between Callum and Duke. Joanna spooned a heaping portion of pasta onto a porcelain plate and placed it before her husband. That damn plate was almost laughable—Callum didn’t have shit like that growing up. They had plastic plates that they reused until they were so warped from the dishwasher that they resembled bowls. Duke had certainly turned things around for Joanna after Tex’s death, though Callum was well into his prison sentence when they married.

“What about them?” Callum asked as he leaned forward to load up his plate.

Duke picked up his fork, shoveled in a mouthful of pasta, chewed, and then swallowed before answering. “Just got back from a meeting with Maverick. Vipers have a drop of distills scheduled with the Vanguard Syndicate next week.”

“Shit,” Callum said, dropping the fork against the plate with a clatter. “I thought they destroyed all the fucking product.”

“Apparently not,” Duke said. He braced his elbows on the table, his arms bracketing the steaming plate of pasta. “We’ve gotta hit them early and hit them hard. Get our shit back before the Syndicate turns to them for good.”

“Is that even a possibility?” Kane asked as he pointed to the bowl with his thumb. “They don’t have the equipment to make the distills.”

Duke ran a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair. “If they sell our shit to the Syndicate, they’re well on their way to affording the informants in the Fieldhouse.”

Kane sat back in his seat. “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” Duke retorted as he shook his head. He turned his cold gaze onto Callum. “What do you think, Vice?”

“If the drop is happening next week, then we’ve got to hit the Vipers in the next two days,” Callum replied. Duke nodded. “Let me get the boys together. We’ll get it taken care of.”

“Talk with Maverick,” Duke said as he picked up his fork again. “He’s got intel on when their facility is in a guard change. It'll be easier when resources are at their lowest.”

Callum’s phone chimed in his pocket.

“Kane, what’s the situation with the distillation recovery?” Duke said, turning his attention away from Callum.

“Got the poppy seeds soaking now. They have to soak for forty-eight hours, and then we’ll press the oil out. It was a trick I learned from…” Kane trailed off, sending Callum a long side-eye. “Anyway, I think it’ll work.”

Callum’s phone chimed again. This time, he lifted his hips to fish it from his pocket. Dakota Montgomery flashed across the screen.

“No phones at the table, Callum,” Joanna admonished him as she stabbed the side salad with her fork. “That's been the rule for thirty years.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Callum said, clicking it off. It chimed again. "It's just Dakota."

“Just go answer it, son,” Duke said, pointing his fork toward the foyer. “Could be about the distillation process for Kane.”

“Or she’s calling to scream at him again,” Kane muttered. Rocco snorted into his plate of pasta.

“Funny,” Callum said as he pushed the chair from behind him. “I’ll be back.”

This call was gonna suck. She had never given a flying fuck about keeping her opinions to herself before, and he had a feeling she wouldn’t now. If he escaped her wrath without having to tuck his proverbial tail between his legs, it was going to be a good fucking conversation. He felt his mother’s stare eroding the spot between his shoulder blades as he swiped his thumb across the screen.

“Yeah?”

Shallow breathing pierced through the phone, followed by a loud thunk . “Callum?”

His name in the speaker, whispered and threaded with terror, made him freeze in place. “What’s wrong?”

Her shallow breathing continued. Another thunk and a rattle of a door in the frame sounded. Dakota whimpered. “It’s Ethan, he’s…he’s here and…”

Callum shoved his feet in his sneakers and grabbed his helmet and gun from the entryway table. “Where are you?”

“Callum!” Rocco called from the kitchen. “Where you going, man?”

But he was already out the door.

“Lyra’s,” Dakota whispered. She let out a small sob, muffled by what seemed to be a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t know who else to call. I—he’s gonna break through the bathroom door.”

Anger. Fear. Dread.

They rippled through him, cutting and biting and slashing. “Just stay put. I’m coming.”

“Please hurry.” Her voice wobbled when another sob broke through. “Please.”

The last time Callum rode his motorcycle that fast was before he went to prison. Traffic honked as he sped through the lanes, weaving between cars and running red lights. Dust kicked up behind him as he pushed his bike faster and faster, gunning it down the neighborhood streets and narrow lanes.

The evening had long since set by the time Callum whipped into Lyra’s driveway. Tossing his helmet to the side, he climbed off the bike and removed his pistol from his hip. He switched the safety off and pounded up the porch stairs, shouldering through the front door.

“ Dakota !”

To say a bomb had gone off in the house would have been an understatement. Blood pooled in patches, staining the carpet a deep red that Callum prayed to the gods wasn’t Dakota’s. Its tang was strong enough that Callum could almost taste metallic. The coffee table was cracked in half, and papers and broken pottery littered the devastation. A kitchen knife lay forgotten on the floor, and bloody hand prints smeared along the walls .

If he was too late…if he didn’t get there in time. No, he couldn’t think about that now. He refused to believe his last words to her were ones that made her feel anything less than.

A door rattled deeper in the house, followed by a fist pounding against the wood. It was weaker than it had been on the phone, but it gave Callum just enough hope that Dakota was still alive.

“ Dakota !”

Callum moved through the house like an assassin, sweeping over the carnage with a singular, blazing thought. Ethan Sullivan. And it was there, lying against the hallway wall directly beside the bathroom door, that Callum found him.

Surprise flitted over Ethan’s ashen face. He let out a choked laugh that morphed into a groan of pain. One hand braced against a wound in his gut, and blood leaked through the gaps in his fingers. “Her savior. I’m sure this looks worse than it is.”

“Where is she?” Callum didn’t have time for Ethan’s bullshit.

Luckily, Ethan didn’t have time for his own bullshit, either. A floppy hand gestured toward the door, where he had successfully put a fist-sized hole through the hollow wood. His hazy gaze drifted to the gun in Callum’s hand, and his mouth split in a toothy grin.

“You’re gonna kill a Ranger of the Iron Guard?” Ethan goaded him. He let out another light chuckle that spilled more blood from between his fingers.

Callum bent down to peer through the hole in the door. Dakota was tucked against the far wall between the tub and the vanity, her knees pulled up to her chest. One arm was cradled in the other, and from her shallow pants and pale face, she was in excruciating pain. Despite that, a rush of relief flooded through every vein in his body.

“Dakota, are you okay?”

Dakota lifted her head, her wide, terrified eyes meeting his. That same relief relaxed her gaze, and Callum tried not to look too far into it. She shook her head, grimacing with the movement. “Broken wrist and cracked ribs, I think.” She lifted an elbow to reveal a bloody stain on her shirt.

A fury he hadn’t experienced since the day his father was killed passed through, tightening his chest and clouding his vision. Every ounce of his focus became tunneled on the man slumped against the wall. What Callum could do to him. What Ethan deserved. Callum stepped back from the door and snatched a bloody towel from the floor.

“Callum. There are distills in my work bag you can give him. I forgot to put them back after a shift at the Guildhall.”

After everything Ethan put her through, she was still willing to let him walk away. That was who she was—down to her core. Unfortunately for Ethan, that wasn't Callum. And he wasn't in the mood to give Ethan the chance to redeem himself.

“Cover your ears.”

The last thing he saw before stuffing the towel through the hole was Dakota shoving her head between her knees.

Ethan’s breaths came in pants, his bulging eyes locked on the gun in Callum’s hand. “You can’t kill me, I’m a—“

Callum crouched in front of Ethan, letting the gun hang between his knees. “What did I tell you the last time I saw you?”

“It’s all…a…mis…under…standing,” Ethan gasped.

“Yeah, I bet it fucking was.” Callum saw red, saw nothing but the sack of shit that lay dying in front of him. “And you’re lucky she was alive when I got here. That's the only reason I'm gonna show you mercy.”

Ethan shook his head. “You’re a terrible human, Callum. We never saw eye-to-eye. But you’re not an executioner. Call the MenderLine to get help before I bleed out.”

Callum shoved the gun into Ethan's mouth—he didn't want to hear one more fucking word. The Ranger gagged around the barrel. “You’re right. I’m not just anyone’s executioner. But I am yours.” Callum pulled the trigger, letting out a single shot that blew out the back of Ethan's skull.