Lover Avenged (Black Dagger Brotherhood 7)

Feeling ridiculous, she put her hands to her face and captured them as best she could, wiping them on the duvet.

She cried for hours.

Alone.

Chapter SIXTY-SIX

The following evening, Lash was about fifteen miles south of Caldwell when he eased the Mercedes onto a dirt lane and turned off the sedan's headlights. Driving slowly along a bumpy dirt lane, he used the rising moon to navigate, cutting through a scruffy, debrided cornfield.

"Get your weapons out," he said.

In the passenger seat, Mr. D palmed his forty, and in the back, the pair of slayers cocked the shotguns they'd been given before Lash had taken them all out of town.

A hundred yards later, Lash hit the brakes and ran his gloved hand around the leather-wrapped steering wheel. The good thing about a big-ass black Mercedes was that when you got out of it you looked like a businessman, not a flashy drug thug. Plus you could fit your guard in the backseat.

"Let's do this."

In a synchronized punch, they popped the latches on their doors and got out, facing off across the snowy earth at another big-ass Mercedes.

Maroon AMG. Nice.

And Lash wasn't the only one to bring guns-and-ammo accessories to the meeting. As all the AMG's doors opened, three guys with forties and one who appeared to be unarmed got out.

Whereas the sedans suggested civility, or at least the appearance of it, all the men in them represented the violent side of the drug trade-which had f**k-all to do with calculators and offshore accounts and money laundering.

Lash approached the man who didn't have a weapon with both his hands out of the pockets of his Joseph Abboud coat. As he came forward, he searched the mind of the South American importer, who, at least according to the drug dealer they had tortured for fun and profit, had sold bulk product to Rehvenge.

"You wanted to meet with me?" the guy said with an accent.

Lash put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and smiled. "You are not Ricardo Benloise." He glanced to the other Mercedes. "And I do not appreciate you and your boss f**king around with me. You tell that motherfucker to get out of the car now, or I'm walking-which means that he will not be doing business with the guy who cleared the decks in Caldwell and who will be servicing the market the Reverend used to handle."

The human seemed nonplussed for a moment; then he glanced back at the three comrades who were standing behind him. After a moment, his eyes finally shifted to the maroon Mercedes and he subtly shook his head.

There was a pause and then the passenger-side door opened and a smaller, older man got out. He was impeccably dressed, his black coat fitting his slight shoulders perfectly, his glossy loafers leaving a shuffling path in the snow.

He came forward with total calmness, as if he were a thousand percent sure that his men could handle whatever happened.

"You will understand my caution," Benloise said with an accent that seemed part French and part Latin American. "It is a good time to be of care."

Lash removed his hand from his jacket, leaving his gun where it was. "You got nothing to worry about."

"You sound very sure."

"As I'm the one who's been knocking off the competition, I am very sure."

The old man's eyes traveled up and down Lash, taking stock, and Lash knew he was going to see nothing but strength.

Figuring there was no time to waste, Lash laid it all out. "I want to move what the Reverend did in terms of volume, and I want to do it now. I have plenty of men and the territory is mine. What I need is a good, steady professional supplier of powder, and that's why I wanted to meet with you. It's simple, really. I'm stepping into the Reverend's shoes, and as you were the one he worked with, I want to do business with you."

The old man smiled. "Nothing is simple. But then, you are young and will discover that for yourself if you live long enough."

"I'm going to be around for plenty of time. Trust me."

"I do not trust anyone, even my family. And I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about. I am an importer of fine Colombian art, and I have no idea how you got my name or why you connected it to anything of an illegal nature." The old man bowed slightly. "I bid you good evening and suggest that you find legitimate pursuits for your no doubt many talents."

Lash frowned as Benloise returned to the AMG, leaving his men behind.

What the f**k? Unless this was going to turn into a lead shower...

As Lash went for his gun, he braced for a shoot-out...but no. The man who'd tried to pass himself off as Benloise just stepped forward and extended his hand.

"Nice to have met you."

As Lash looked down, he saw there was something in the guy's palm. A card.

Lash did the shake thing, took what he'd been given, and went back to his own Mercedes. As he got behind the wheel, he watched the AMG amble off down the lane, its tailpipe smoking in the cold.

He looked down at the card. It was a number.

"Whatchu got there, suh?" Mr. D asked.

"I think we might be in business." He got out his cell phone and dialed, then put the car in gear and went in the opposite direction from Benloise's crew.

Benloise picked up the call. "So much more comfortable to speak in a warm car, is it not?"

Lash laughed. "Yeah."

"Here is what I shall offer you. A quarter of the product that I shipped monthly to the Reverend. If you are able to safely move it on the streets, then we shall look at increasing the trade. Are we in accord?"

It was such a pleasure dealing with a professional, Lash thought. "We are."

After they discussed the money and the delivery side of things, they hung up.

"We're good," he said with satisfaction.

As all kinds of backslapping went on in the car, he allowed himself to grin like a motherfucker. The prospect of setting up labs was proving more difficult than he'd expected-although he was still moving forward on that, he needed a big-league, reliable supplier and this relationship with Benloise was the key to that. With the cash it was going to generate, he could recruit, acquire state-of-the-art weapons, buy more real estate, target the Brothers. As it stood now, he felt like the Lessening Society had been in neutral since he took over, but that was over, thanks to the old man with the accent.

Back in Caldwell proper, Lash dumped Mr. D and the other lessers off at that nasty-ass ranch and then proceeded across to the brownstone. As he parked in the garage, he was flushed from possibilities of the future, the buzz making him aware of how f**king bummed out he'd been. Money mattered. It was freedom to do what you wanted, buy what you needed.

It was power stacked in orderly piles and rubber-banded with authority.

It was what he required to be who he was.

As he came in through the kitchen, he took a moment to savor the improvements he'd already been able to make. No more empty counters and cabinets. There were espresso machines and Cuisinarts and dishes and glasses, none of which had been purchased from Target. There was also gourmet food in the refrigerator and fine wines in the cellar below and top-shelf booze at the bar.

He walked out into the dining room, which was still bare, and hit the stairs two at a time, loosening his clothes as he went, his c**k getting stiffer with every step. Upstairs his princess was waiting for him. Waiting for him and ready. Bathed and oiled and perfumed by two of his slayers, prepared for his use like the sex slave she was.

Man, he was glad all lessers were impotent; otherwise there would have been a rash of castrations in the Society.

As he hit the first of the landings, he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the scores of scratches that ran across his chest. They had each been made by his lover's nails, and he smiled, ready to add to the collection. After about two weeks of having her tied down completely, he'd started releasing one of her hands and one of her feet. The more they fought the better.

God, she was a hell of female-

He froze as he got to the top of the stairs, the scent coming down the hall stopping him dead. Oh...God, the sweet saturation was so heavy, it was as if a hundred perfume bottles had been smashed open.

Lash raced for the door to the bedroom. If anything had happened to-

The carnage was stunning, black blood staining the new rug and the fresh wallpaper: The two lessers he'd left to guard his female were propped up on the floor across from the canopy bed, each with a knife in his right hand. Both had multiple, glistening gashes to their necks, having stabbed themselves over and over again until they lost so much blood, they went lax.