The Weight of Us

by

A.K. Hunter

Chapter Two

"All of us were only dreaming." — Imagine Dragons, "Dream"

He'd been many things in his life: a helpless boy, a fugitive from his own past, a stupidly optimistic homicide detective, a husband, a father, a criminal, and a powerless man who had everything to lose. These days he was something new, something different. Something powerful. These days, he was a king.

The luxurious building was stuffed to the gills with criminals, male and female, young and old. It was a celebration of sorts, a reward for those who stood by him. After several long months establishing himself—rising from his family's ashes and building a ruthless reputation upon the backs of those who stood in his way—he was finally the undisputed leader of the Nolan crime syndicate.

Kevin washed his hands methodically under the warm water and perfumed soap, allowing his mind to seek out more pressing matters. This was it. The final piece of the puzzle. He just had to secure the linchpin, and then his glorious, terrible creation would crumble around him.

He dried his hands, sparing a glance at himself to make certain that nothing was out of place. His three piece suit, black on black, was all crisp lines, displaying the lean, but powerful muscles beneath the expensive fabric. He toyed at his platinum cuff links, then took one last look at his face. Empty blue eyes stared back, hard and impassive as stone. The lines in his face were sharp, unforgiving. His hair had grown a little longer, slicked back as it was, straddling the line between artful disarray and a wild mane. The stubble-covered muscles around his mouth pulled his lips back to bare his teeth. It was more a snarl than smirk, but that was fine by him. He hadn't spent eleven months gaining a reputation as a predator only to look like an angel.

His eyes cut away from the caricature that he'd become, and Kevin stepped out of the bathroom.

The smell of alcohol, sex, and sweat took him by force; the pounding bass echoed in his bones. Everywhere he looked, his associates, his employees, and his business partners reveled in the festivities he'd provided for them. Drugs. Alcohol. Prostitutes. The artificial high that came from lowered inhibitions. Each one had a rap sheet a mile long, running the gamut from petty theft to murder. Kevin knew them all. He'd handpicked them, carefully separating the wheat from the chaff to build his legacy. His opus.

Everyone he passed watched him warily, their eyes flinching in a mix of terror and deference. Rather than wanting him, admiring him, or loving him, they swathed him in fear and respect and unyielding obedience, their sacrifices to an angry god. Every soul in that building knew what he was capable of, the power he commanded, the way fortunes were made and death warrants were signed at his inclination. The revelry itself was proof of the bliss he could provide to those who were deemed worthy.

His fine leather shoes carried him back to the small side room that overlooked the main areas of the house. His final mark tapped his foot impatiently. The man had arrived almost two hours before, eager to do business. Since then, the liquor had flowed generously, as had the cocaine. Kevin was an indulgent host, even doing a line himself to keep his treasured guest comfortable. Kevin had long ago learned his limits, how far he could dive into the darkness without drowning.

His mark was William MacClellan, a graying British ex-pat who ran a small but significant human trafficking ring out of the UK and was looking to expand into the United States. MacClellan had been wary, aggressive, and determined to control the tentative deal. MacClellan thought himself the ruler of his own empire.

But Kevin knew better, and he relished the opportunity to kick the man's filthy business down like a sandcastle. Between the two men, there was only one leader, one alpha, one king. And it sure as shit wasn't some drugged out Scot.

"Thought you'd gotten lost in the revelry," MacClellan mumbled.

"A man doesn't find himself in control of New York, Ireland, and half of the UK by losing himself in every party that passes him by," Kevin said, reminding the man exactly who he was dealing with.

"You've come quite a ways in a short time," MacClellan said. "It's quite impressive. I had Devin Sloane pegged for the job."

Kevin tapped his fingers on the curved mahogany arm of his seat. "So I've heard." Fucking Sloane. Almost a year cold in his grave, and the bastard was still causing trouble.

"He made certain promises to me. He was going to open a new market for me in the States."

"Sloane never had the power to keep those promises. This, on the other hand," Kevin gestured at the revelry and wealth around him,"has always been my birthright. You can't expect me to honor a promise made with stolen authority."

"I hear he made a habit of trying to steal from you," MacClellan said. "Whatever happened to the whore he took from you?"

Something hot thumped inside his empty heart. "You've been keeping tabs on the New York branch."

"It's my job to keep abreast of changes in the market."

"He killed her." The lie was harder to say than he'd expected.

"Pity."

"It was an unforgivable mistake," Kevin shrugged. "Sloane dug his own grave when he dared to take what was mine."

"I admired Sloane's intrepid attitude. Your grandfather was never willing to look beyond his traditions to see new ways of doing business."

"I'm not my grandfather, and I'm not Sloane."

MacClellan's eyes flashed. "If you're not interested, why the hell did you want to meet me?"

Kevin sat back and crossed his legs. "I never said I wasn't interested. You're the one who's been drinking my liquor and snorting my cocaine for the last two hours without making a single offer."

The Scot shook himself, then sat forward, a salesman's gleam entering his glazed eyes. "Alright, then. You know what I do. There are pretty girls everywhere. You'd be surprised how much some men are willing to pay."

"I paid plenty for mine, and she brought me nothing but trouble. I don't see what's so special about your girls."

"If a man with your tastes doesn't see the lure in my business, then your whore must not have been worth the money."

Hackles raised on the back of his neck, but Kevin held back the snarl that caught in his throat. "I'd suggest you worry more about gaining my support and less about my personal tastes. Your time is running out."

MacClellan gulped, and Kevin knew he had the man on a hook. He wanted the deal to go through just as much as Kevin did. "Pet," the man barked, and a girl who couldn't have been older than eighteen rushed forward. Her mocha skin glowed in the light, but he saw the tension in her muscles, the wideness of her dark eyes. She was frightened of him, and for good reason. She kneeled at his feet, huddled in lingerie that left little to the imagination.

The sight was too familiar, and it gave him the kick he needed to finish the deal. He lifted her chin, noting the slight flinch when his calloused fingers made contact with her face. "What's your name?"

She blinked at him for just a moment, then averted her eyes. "Sasha," she whispered in an accent he couldn't identify.

His thumb stroked the line of her jaw as he pulled his hand away. It was subtle, and it was the closest thing to comfort he could give her.

"If you'd like something different," MacClellan said," that can be arranged. I've brought several. They're back at my hotel."

"How much?"

"For the night?"

"To keep," Kevin said. "What's the going rate for a whore these days? I'd like to know how much of a cut I can expect if this partnership becomes a reality."

"You're considering it then?" MacClellan sounded surprised. "I would have thought with your history—"

"This is business," Kevin said succinctly. "And if you'd like to keep my business, you'll stay out of my personal affairs." His tone dropped low, closer to a growl. "I won't fucking tell you again."

"Of course. The base price is two-hundred-thousand pounds, and it varies depending on age, beauty, those kinds of things."

"Where do they come from?"

MacClellan frowned, and Kevin was quick to interrupt. "I need to know who might be looking for them. I haven't worked my ass off to get caught for selling some co-ed who got lost on spring break."

"They come from poor conditions. Most are runaways or sold by their families to keep food on the table."

That hot feeling burned across his chest again, and Kevin laced his hands, thrumming his fingertips against his knuckles as he pretended to think about his mark's offer. Sasha glanced up at him from beneath her eyelashes, and for a split second Kevin saw red hair, alabaster skin, and bright blue eyes. He took a deep breath to douse the growing heat across his rib cage. He stood up, offering his hand to the filthy Scot. "I believe we have a deal."

The man leaped to his feet. "You won't regret this."

That snarl-smirk marred his features as Kevin's hand locked the man's in a vice. "You will."

Shots rang through the room, and Kevin threw his body over the girl as bullets whizzed over them.

"Stay down," he barked in her ear before finding his feet, pulling his gun from his holster. Kevlar-clad law enforcement stormed through the building, arresting who they could and slinging bullets at those who tried to shoot their way to freedom.

Dodging bullets and fistfights, screams echoing in a dissonant melody with the pounding music, Kevin made his way to the center of the foyer, halfway down the grand staircase where everyone could see him. He raised his gun at a group of MI-5 agents, and two bullets impacted his chest, another grazing his bicep as he hit the floor, warm, sticky fluid gushing from his frame. The impact hurt like a son of a bitch, but something close to euphoria sang through his veins. Kevin let his eyes fall shut.

It was finally over.

"Morning, sunshine. How's my favorite dead mob boss?"

Kevin lifted his head from the lumpy pillow, bleary pictures of a long-lost lover fading into the depths of his waking mind. A blonde man in a neatly pressed suit stood over him, a set of keys dangling from his hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

"Dead bored," Kevin answered, his voice hoarse from disuse. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the filthy couch that had been his bed for nearly a week. "How's cleanup?"

Agent Shields took a seat on the edge of a lumpy, old armchair, his sharp eyes cutting over the shitty little safe house that Kevin had been holed up in. "Just about done. Thanks to our hard work and your nice theatrical death, everything's tied up in a neat little bow."

"Glad to be of service. Is that for me?" Kevin gestured to the coffee.

The blonde smirked, then took a pull from the coffee cup. "What do you think?"

"Bastard."

"That's not a very nice thing to say to your best friend."

"You're my handler. Not my friend."

"You might think twice about that when you see what I've brought." Shields tossed a manila envelope at him. "Interpol wants you. So does MI-5. But I told them you're already spoken for."

"What's this?" Kevin asked.

"Your next assignment."

Kevin's blood ran cold. He'd been told his job was one and done, but in the back of his mind he knew that deal was too good to be true. "There is no next assignment."

Shields shook his head, that shit-eating smile still attached to his face. "There's always a next assignment. Open it up."

Kevin looked in the file, and shock rooted him in place as he recognized the face staring back at him as his own. His eyes scanned through the accompanying name on the file.

Name: Kevin Ryan

Age: 36

Occupation: Analyst, Federal Bureau of Investigation, New York City Division

"You're shitting me," Kevin said, hope banging against his ribs so hard it hurt.

"You're obviously too high-profile to stick with field work, but you've impressed just about everyone in this op. The FBI wants you to keep helping us fight the good fight. You'll see a contract along with your starting salary in the file. The job's not very exciting, but the wages are competitive and it offers full benefits."

"It's really that easy?" Kevin tried to keep the desperation from his voice. Nothing in his life had ever been easy. It was too much to hope that he'd catch a break now of all times.

"Fortunately only Sloane and your grandfather knew you as Kevin Ryan, so as long as you keep a low profile and don't do anything stupid, I don't see any reason why you can't go back to New York and pick up where you left off."

"Shields..." Kevin was at a loss for words. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Are we friends now?"

"Friends? I could kiss you on the mouth."

The blonde agent smiled, then slapped Kevin on the shoulder. "Get cleaned up. Your flight leaves in an hour."

Kevin leaped to his feet, rushing around the shitty apartment with a new bounce in his step, and he shoved his few belongings into a duffel bag. He stopped for a moment when a flash of silver fell out of the pocket of a pair of pants. Kevin picked it up with reverence, letting his thumb travel over the twined silver knot. Joy cracked through his long-cold heart.

He was going home.

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long, guys. I hope you liked it. I'd love to know what you think, and I promise the next one will come sooner.

Next time: Kevin's back in New York, and Alexis has no idea how to handle it.