Page 7 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

Never ask questions, and never question what you’re asked to do.

The words of my past surface inside my head, taking me back to my training with the Agency, where we lived and breathed detachment. So much so, as kids, we were often pitted against each other. Training and exercises were carried out in an abandoned mental institute on the east coast.

The Coventry Correctional Counterplay Center, or C4 as it was known, housed about thirty kids at a time. Some from the streets, recruited by the church, but nearly all were from bad homes—ones where abuse was so rampant, they made the harsh trainings of C4 look like a day at the spa. My darkest days were spent in isolation there, where I passed way too much time dreaming of effective methods of torture that would later become something of a trademark for me. A specialty that would catapult me up the ranks to higher-paying gigs through the Agency.

As if on cue, a soft moan interrupts my thoughts and I beat my temple, hoping to beat her face right out of my skull.

Dylan.

How she found me, I have no idea, but she’s fucking with my head. Popping up in the thick of business matters like she belongs there. I reach down to adjust my stiffening cock and turn the car into the club’s underground parking garage. Taking the elevator spits me out onto the second floor hallway, where all the club business goes down.

From over the balcony, strobe lights flash across a clusterfuck of scantily clad women and the men out to lay them tonight. No doubt, a line waits outside to get in—always a line-up no matter what day of the week. Bertrand’s club is the swankiest in the city, with girls who probably walk the line of barely legal.

I keep on down the hall toward security.

Bothers me that I couldn’t get out of Accardi and Matteo how they got inside Spades with guns when bouncers sit at both entrances, front and back, patting everyone down.

“Rip!” The voice from behind crimps my lip and I don’t bother to turn. If there’s one bastard whose skull I’d like to shatter with a bullet, it’s Dorian’s younger brother, Enzo Bertrand.

His boots clomp like a Clydesdale as he trails behind me. No wonder he’s not sent to snuff anyone. Asshole’s got the lethal grace of a three-legged bull at a ballet recital. In seconds he’s beside me, dangling something shiny, and I come to a halt just outside of the security office.

“Recognize this at all?” he asks, holding up some kind of locket.

I don’t answer, but instead let my eyes and my silence tell him to fuck off.

“It was found at the factory,” he continues in spite of my apathy. “Rene and Lou stumbled upon it when they cleaned up your non-commissioned mess.”

From what I’ve gathered, Enzo wasn’t too keen on finding that I went after Frank Caruso, and no doubt he’d shit himself if he knew my feisty little prize back at home had seen the whole damn thing go down.

“So what?” I lift the heavy gold metal swinging in front of me and pop it open to a Roman numeral time face. “Probably belonged to Frank.”

“Maybe.” He yanks it from my grasp and flips it over in the palm of his hand. “Except it has Marceaux engraved in it.”

The name isn’t familiar to me, but I’m curious as to what it means to him. “So Frank swiped it off someone. The fuck’s so special about it?”

“I don’t know.” The way he tucks it into his pocket as if I’m going to swipe it from him tells me otherwise. “Maybe you had other motives for going after Frank.”

“Maybe you should mind your own fucking business and stay out of my way.”

“Your business is my business. You might be my brother’s bitch, but know that I’m watching you.”

Capping a smile, I shake my head. “Must be exhausting.”

“What?”

“Being so useless, the most important shit you have going on is watching me.”

His eye twitches at that, an indignant scowl etched in his face as he strides off in the direction he’d come.

With a smirk, I watch him round the corner while I step inside the security room, where Anthony and one other sits with his feet kicked up. As one of the bigger clubs in the city, Spades has its own security team, contracted out. Decent guys, it seems, though they’ve seen enough shit to keep their mouths shut.

“Well, look what the wind blew in.” Anthony nabs a coffee mug beside him and kicks back a sip. “The man in black.”

“Surprised you didn’t see me coming.” I nod toward one of many screens.

“Every damn time you come through that back entrance, you set Jim’s asshole puckering for a minute. Look like a damn terminator in that leather jacket.” Setting his feet back on the floor, Anthony sits forward and when he reaches out a hand, I shake it. “What’s up, Rip?”

“I need the tapes of the night Accardi and Matteo broke into the club,” I say, crossing my arms as I study the shitty resolution of the monitors. Probably the only thing Bertrands didn’t invest much in, since most security feed is digital, but as I understand, Lucien preferred tangible over high tech. “See if you find anything unusual. Out of place.”