Page 67 of Making His Bones

Barely giving it a thought, I whipped my wifebeater over my head and shook it out over hers. “Wear this, at least. You’ll be stuck with some of this snatch’s pants or skirt but it’s better than nothing.”

As we both pulled the thin fabric down over her bra, her eyes started to shine with tears. “I can’t believe she’s finally gone.”

I kissed her forehead, smoothing the shirt down around her hips. “It’s better than trying to get her convicted. This is the MC way, Elektra.”

She looked up at me. “I’m not sorry she’s dead. The opposite.”

“What, then?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to kill her.”

A

Elektra

There was no way in fuck I was waiting behind to call DeFreeze instead of racing to the distillery to put Pitchfork under.

Listen to me. Put Pitchfork under. I was starting to think like the MC, too.

But you better know I was dripping with anger at these twisted people.

Wind dried the tears from my eyes as I locked my thighs around Gray’s bitch seat and my arms around his taut waist. Narcissa Whitman had almost murdered me. I’d been impotent and helpless as she commanded me around at gunpoint. I’d never felt so full of rage yet powerless at the same time.

Gray had saved my life. Tit for tat. I’d sort of saved his ass when he’d crashed in his squirrel suit, and now he’d scooped me from an unimaginable hell.

To avoid thinking about Delilah and that rolling pin, I hugged Gray tighter and thought about Tiago.

He was like our son! All of thirteen years old and he’d been forced to become a drug mule just to stay alive—before acting in Pitchfork’s sleazy “Captain Picard” films. No doubt Bud was on his way to lock Tiago up with the next batch of over-the-hill actors destined to roam the desert, led not by Moses but by a gallon jug of hallucinogenic moonshine.

I soon saw that Wolf was leading the way to the secret access road we’d taken with Santiago Slayer. Good, because I would’ve taken Gray’s piece from his jeans and shot that fucking guard just to get inside the property. Something had shifted in me, maybe around the time Narcissa Whitman, with two hands on the neckline of my dress, had torn the fabric from me, leaving me as vulnerable as I’d ever felt. Now I didn’t care if I perpetrated violence on this family.

I would not blame myself!

In a way, I felt ripped off that Bud Pitchfork had done the deed himself on Narcissa. How I would’ve loved to have held that bug spray can to her fucking mouth and pressed the button until she choked—I’d even hold her nostrils shut so she couldn’t breathe. Let her know how it felt to be stuffed into a suitcase and tossed into a pond! I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined it in all its glorious detail.

Rage boiled in me, and I didn’t realize I was digging my fingers into Gray’s pectorals until he pried them loose. By then, we were bouncing and sliding over the sandy trail that led to the distillery. This time, we didn’t see any half-naked Mexican boys lounging around the boulders. Maybe that was a good sign that Upton Pitchfork was nervous, felt the heat after the squirrel suit episode. Santiago Slayer had taken all his “workers” back to Mexico, for whatever good that did. He said he would try to get them jobs in Mexico City with friends, other actors I presumed.

The lowering sun behind stands of pines cast an alternating pattern of light and dark on Wolf Glaser’s furiously hunched figure. It was funny, all the patches he had on the back of his cut. I couldn’t read them now, but I knew they said corny things like “In God we Trust—the Guns are Just Backup,” “In My Defense, I Was Left Unsupervised,” and “You Would be Loud Too if I was Riding You.”

I knew how serious and determined Wolf was in his mission, and I knew I felt like him—focused and stubborn. It struck me—we were brothers. We were brothers in this operation, the three of us, with the exact same end goal. We’d use the exact same tools to achieve our ends. We hadn’t even had reason to discuss it beforehand, just leaped on our bikes and off we went. Now I knew how Gray and his brothers must feel. They all agreed on their duty, and how to execute it—if you will excuse my language. They were all a part of the same family, and for the first time I felt it, too.

We cut our engines before the last rise. Hopping off the bitch seat and removing my lid, I immediately texted Janet Treasure.

Elektra: Can you do me a solid? Call DeFreeze at the cop station anonymously. Tell him Narcissa Whitman has committed suicide in her mobile home. Don’t mention my name.

Janet: Of course. Where are you?

Elektra: Delete this text string.

I showed my phone to Gray to get his approval, which he gave with a curt nod. He said, “See that tree up there? You stay behind there.”

Of course I had no intention of doing so, and walked with Gray toward the crest of the hill. Wolf walked back toward us after scoping out the scene.

“I don’t see a Pitchfork pickup, but the fish truck is there.”

“Good,” said Gray. He removed his handgun from his jeans and gripped it, stacking his fingers without touching the trigger as I’d seen the DEA and FBI do as they stalked their potential prey. “Let’s go for the trailer first, the truck second.”

“Right. We need to bury Pitchfork before we can save Tiago.”