“You can’t go, wearing this,” I say, gesturing at my large white T-shirt. “I need clothes for you. I also need my club to agree to help me help your family.”
Pixie opens her mouth to squeal in protest. She looks threateningly at me and even swings her fists, but I just shrug.
“If I go in there by myself, the Volkshalberd might not let me take your family. Then I could get shot, and your family could get hurt. This is better.”
For thirty seconds, Pixie keeps her mouth poised for screaming. Then she nods at my idea and smiles.
“You’re very smart, Anders. Lots of men are dumb, dumb, dumb. John of the Marks is stupid. Not you.”
I smile at her compliment. My heart feels lighter when she says nice stuff about me. Pixie isn’t fake. She doesn’t like everyone, and she’s very, very obvious about her feelings. Her approval is a prize few people enjoy.
Once in the kitchen, I check my messages. Bronco tells me to meet him at the Woodlands’ clubhouse in an hour. Another message is from my VP’s wife, who came by overnight and dropped off clothes at the front door.
Looking through the bag left by Topanga, Pixie says no to them all. She doesn’t like pants, and pink is the color of baby butts. Yet, when I explain how she needs to change so we can get her family, she instantly strips down and dresses in the clothes.
The shirt goes on backward, of course. I have to help her with that, which makes her laugh. Through the process, she keeps eyeing the door. I make her eat some of the leftover food from last night before we leave. Not wanting most of it, she acts as if the food tastes weird. I guess it probably does to someone who rarely eats meat. I have her put together a bag of snacks for her family. Finally, we get in my SUV, where she refuses to wear a seat belt.
“You’re beautiful,” she says when I try to strap her in. “But no.”
“Yes. Or we can’t go.”
Pixie backs down immediately, and we’re able to leave the garage.
Only the Executioners can live in this gated community. There are a dozen empty lots on the back end of the subdivision where my house is located. At the center of the Woodlands is the community’s clubhouse. There’s an indoor pool and a play area, along with plenty of space for parties. Today, the clubhouse’s parking lot acts as a meeting place for the Executioners.
My SUV is the first to arrive. A handful of bikes roll in a few minutes later. Bronco and Lowell appear next. Once they arrive, I know I need to join the group.
When I get out, Pixie tries to follow. No way does she want to be cooped up in the vehicle. I beg her to stay put while I talk to my boss. Maybe remembering how we need them to get her family, Pixie obeys. I show her how to work the radio and hope the music calms her down.
“Long night?” Bronco asks me once I join my club brothers near the building’s double door entrance.
“She couldn’t sleep most of the night. Too worried if her family is dead.”
“They probably are,” mutters my club brother, Wyatt. “Hell, the Village could have gone the Jim Jones Kool-Aid route, and we’ll find nothing but bodies.”
I don’t normally care about Wyatt’s mouth. The hotheaded blond is family to the man in charge. There’s even a chance Wyatt might run the Executioners one day. Usually, when his mouth spouts bullshit, I keep my head down.
But not today.
Without thinking, I reach out and wrap my large fingers around his thin neck. He inherited a soft lady's throat from his mama, Bambi. I’d never snap her neck, but I feel myself struggling against the urge to end her son. Wyatt’s bright blue eyes—got that from his mama too—widen with fear. He knows he can’t win against me. If we battle, I’ll easily crush him.
“Titan,” Bronco says in that tone he uses when he’s making threats without actually threatening.
“Don’t fuck with my people,” I warn Wyatt.
“Easy, man,” Lowell adds, using the same soft voice as when his wife is pissed.
My hand unwraps from Wyatt’s throat, and I step back. But in my head, I still see myself killing Wyatt. I’m ready to burn down this life. If I do wrong by Pixie, there’s nothing left for me. I might as well end everything.
“I have an idea,” Conor says and keeps talking while everyone still focuses on me. Bronco’s other nephew—Barbie’s boy instead of Bambi’s—is the ice to Wyatt’s fire. His voice cuts through the red-hot tension around us. Speaking calmly, he continues, “There are two reasons the Village hasn’t paid us. One is that John Marks is testing our resolve. The other is that they’re using their income to buy weapons for war.”
Bronco stops watching me and glances at Conor. “And?”
“When we go out today, you could loudly offer to make the club and the Village square and end the blockage. They’ll claim poverty. You can then ask to be paid in weapons.”
“We don’t need guns,” Wyatt grumbles, feeling like a big man when he’s facing off against his younger cousin. Of course, he wasn’t so tough when I was ready to pound him.
“No,” Conor replies without losing his temper, “but we don’t want them to have the weapons. John Marks will likely refuse since his loyal people aren’t starving yet. However, the rest of the Village will understand how their children go to bed hungry because Marks chooses to buy things they don’t need.”
“Create discord,” Bronco says, liking the idea. “I don’t know how a whiny narcissist like Marks convinced those people to let him lead the Village. Maybe enough of them will revolt.”
“The leadership has guns,” I point out. “Many people in the Village, like Pixie’s family, don’t own shoes. How will they find the weapons to take on armed
