Kept Boy to Made Man - 17. Fire

“Fix it,” he mumbled into the night. “Fix it, or we will.”

He didn’t know how to fix it. Riz didn’t even know what to fix. Charlie was out of the picture. Jason Rizzo didn’t know anything about the crazy man with the cards, or the people he represented. It was Charlie's twisted passion that had gotten the man’s attention. Riz hadn’t cared where that passion led as long as he was getting paid.

He pounded his fist against the steering wheel. Joe and Sal were his enforcers. They collected his earnings and made his problems go away. Joe was dead and Sal wouldn’t be fixing anything for him ever again.

“Fucking fix it!” He screamed.

Jason Rizzo would be all too happy to fix it if he had any idea who pay off, threaten, or kill. Charlie Miller had been his break into the big leagues, but Riz realized that he had also been holding all the cards.

“Fucking cards!” The euphemism enraged him. “Fucking Charlie Miller.”

The man had a fundamental need to be in control, but he wasn’t currently in control of anything. He looked at the darkened interior of Zia Marie’s as he drove slowly by. His aunt and uncle’s restaurant was the birthplace of his fantasies. He had grown up in that kitchen, in that booth, dreaming of the day he would control something big.

Jason Rizzo didn’t pay any attention to the long, dark limousine that pulled away from the curb, slipping in behind him. He was far too absorbed by his nearly realized dreams that were suddenly slipping from his grasp.

Some kids grew up with dreams of playing baseball for the Cubs or rescuing beautiful damsels from deadly flames; not Jason. He didn’t want to be an astronaut or a movie star either. He had always admired the mobsters in the old movies. He wanted to be the Godfather.

As a teen, he had dreamed of guns, liquor, sex, money, and blood; the power to do what he wanted, when he wanted; the fear that made others obey his every command. Those things were his definition of success, and he had been well on his way, the road paved by Charlie Miller’s success.

Now, Charlie was gone. Joe and Sal, his enforcers were gone. His dream lay on pavement shot to hell and bleeding out. Jason Rizzo knew he would meet the same gory fate if he didn’t quickly make things right. Fix it.

Thoughts of Juan Ramos and Roger Cicero were strangely absent as fear and desperation bounced around the man’s head. He remembered the shocking sight of Charlie Miller’s work strewn across the concrete floor of an abandoned warehouse. The grotesque images mocked him, the FBI man mocked him, the old man he both despised and idolized mocked him.

He had naively believed himself the mastermind of an empire only hours before. Now, Jason Rizzo felt hunted and haunted in the unknown world he himself had commissioned but didn’t understand. He felt pursued, like a Bonnie-less Clyde.

Unlike Clyde Barrow, Riz didn’t have a partner, or even a gang. He would never have considered giving any of his power to a woman or even more confoundedly another man. He liked sex, but for Jason Rizzo the act was about taking and controlling. In that small way, he understood the men who paid Charlie to use his boys, although the thought of paying to take was incomprehensible.

Buying something he wanted had never been as exciting to Riz as taking it by force. If he were to have a Bonnie, she would be a captive rather than a companion.

He suddenly found himself thinking of Juan Ramos once more. Not about killing him, but about taking the man; ravaging his body; making him scream in agony; ripping him open mercilessly; claiming his body and breaking his mind. The young Hispanic man could be his slave.

The idea physically excited him. Riz adjusted himself as his pants grew uncomfortably tight. A week ago, Jason Rizzo might have seriously entertained that fantasy, but he was far less confident that he had been then.

He thought again of the photos on the concrete floor. Juan Ramos felt unattainable, but there was a farm full of warm bodies he could break. He could have his pick from the very boys Juan Ramos and Roger Cicero were attempting to save. In a way, that would hurt the hated men more than enslaving them. The thought quickly became an obsession.

Maybe he would die in a hail of gunfire like Clyde Barrow, but he would do so on his terms. He was the Godfather once more. The Godfather took what he wanted, when he wanted it. Riz had never before felt excited by Charlie Miller’s work, but suddenly he saw himself in those photos claiming and destroying the pure and forbidden innocence of youth. Knowing it would hurt the two men he hated most only further fueled his unpardonable lust for blood and agony.

Jason Rizzo’s perverse thoughts were interrupted by the bright headlights now far too close to his rear bumper. They flashed several times, before the car’s right turn signal began to blink. He thought about mashing the gas pedal down and shooting into the night, but he wasn’t yet ready to embark on his glorious spree of destruction.

He tapped the brakes before signaling his intent to pull over. He would pretend to be submissive until he could force the world to bend over before him. High-pitched, boyish screams echoed in his mind. The delicious sounds of unendurable pain and terror made the Godfather salivate in anticipation.

. . .

Just over five-hundred miles away, another man was thinking about the Godfather as he stared at the old, dying man in the bed before him. He slipped the portable cassette recorder back into his briefcase before settling onto his folding metal chair once more. The sterile hospital room had become a second office over the past several weeks as the corporate attorney carried out his client’s final set of strange instructions.

He had never had a client like the now-frail old man who insisted he be present for his final moments. He had never watched another human being die. Thirty-four-year-old Walter Penhurst II had always thought of death as a sudden thing as it had been with those he knew that had passed away. He now knew that wasn’t always the case. He had been watching his client die slowly for almost six months.

The attorney focused on the beeps of the EKG machine, unable to tear his eyes away from the body struggling to live. The ragged, shallow breathing became erratic as the time between beeps increased.

Walter almost screamed when the dying man’s eyes slipped opened, looking clearer than they had in days. The old man’s eyes focused on his new attorney as disconnected memories of his life flickered quickly through his slowing thoughts. His lips and throat were dry. He tried to speak to the young man he had hired to stay by his bedside. It took several agonizing seconds for the dying man to remember how to speak.

“Tell… him.” The old man struggled through another breath. “I’m… sor-ry.”

Walter Penhurst II didn’t need to ask who the old man meant. He had listened to his past and his regrets.

“I will, sir,” the man said as unexpected tears fells down his cheeks.

The attorney wasn’t familiar with religious last rights. He had never before been asked to usher a soul into whatever came next. Walter said the only comforting thing that came to mind, hoping that it would ease the man’s passing in some small way.

“Rest in peace, sir.” He saw a fire shoot across the man’s vision that he hadn’t seen in days.

“Doub-t… ‘t,” the man croaked as his eyes closed once more.

Walter didn’t really like the man, but he found himself crying as the infrequent beeps were finally replaced by a solid, high-pitched tone. His paid vigil was finally over, which left only a few simple tasks to complete before closing the strange client’s file for good. It was getting late. Those tasks could wait until morning, especially since the demanding and intimidating man Walter thought of as the Godfather would not be making any further demands or ask for any additional updates.

He left the small, soulless room and the frail, cancer-riddled body behind. The man didn’t feel the need to look back as he passed the nurses moving unhurriedly to take his place.

. . .

“Let’s go for a drive, Two.” The Jack rolled up the privacy window separating the front of the limousine with the rear.

He looked at the almost crazed creature before him. He hadn’t thought much of Jason Rizzo when they first met, and he found that second impressions were not improving his poor opinion of the man.

“You’ve had a busy day, it seems, Mr. Rizzo. I’ve been waiting to talk to you. I don’t like to be kept waiting.” He leaned forward and grabbed Jason Rizzo’s lower jaw, forcefully raising the man’s head. “I need to know what happened to Charles Miller. I am out of time and patience.”

“He waaas arr-est-ted.” Jason Rizzo didn’t feel like the Godfather any longer as the man squeezed his jaw painfully.

“Why was Charles Miller arrested, Mr. Rizzo?” He hated having to deal with small and pathetic men who didn’t understand their place in the world; his strong grip tightened, immobilizing Riz’s lower jawbone.

“Ah-ack-a-ow.” The Jack released his grip, before delivering a stinging slap to the man’s cheek. “Fuck, I can’t tell you anything if you crush my face!”

“Talk.” The Jack of Spades had no sympathy for the animal in front of him.

“His nephew ratted him out. He fucked around with the kid when he was young, or something.” The words rushed out of Jason Rizzo’s mouth.

It was too early for relief, but the man had expected Charles Miller’s arrest to be related to his work as the Ace of Spades. He thought back to the Feds removing boxes from the man’s house.

“The FBI was cleaning out the studio,” he said with an expectant look.

Riz thought of the evidence he had seen with his own eyes. He began to hope he knew enough to reach his car alive.

“The Feds and the police are fighting over jurisdiction. I know where they are keeping the evidence. I can tell you.” Riz stopped talking, hoping to make a deal.

The Jack of Spades sat back, ignoring the man’s desperate expression. He had no doubt the FBI would be able to follow at least some of what they found at Charlie's back to several of the other Cards in The Deck.

They wouldn’t have had time to learn much yet, but getting into a federal evidence locker would take more time than he had. As frustrating and expensive as it would be, the Jack would suggest that they shuffle The Deck and start again. Charlie had connections into the other Suits, unlike most Cards. That was a mistake which would not be repeated.

“I’m afraid knowing where the evidence is and getting to it before it can be analyzed are two very different things.” He relished the panicked look on the man’s face. “You are of no use to us Mr. Rizzo.”

The blood drained from his face as Riz watched the man reach for the intercom button. Any thoughts of a deal were abandoned as his desire to live became paramount.

“You can!” The man’s hand paused as an eyebrow rose in question. “They are setting up some kind of joint command center in an old warehouse in the middle of the city.”

“Why would the FBI do that when they have a perfectly good office building at their disposal, Mr. Rizzo?” His finger was once more moving towards the button.

“Because the Feds and pigs are fighting over who gets the case and who will process the shit they found at Charlie’s. I swear! I saw Charlie’s fucking photos and videos with my own eyes.” Jason Rizzo frantically recounted his conversation with Juan Ramos' FBI babysitter. “The Feds don’t trust the cops and the cops don’t trust the Feds.”

The Jack had a hard time imagining the FBI being so careless with evidence, but discovering Jason Rizzo’s dirty detectives might explain why they would feel compelled to avoid the official playbook.

“Where is this warehouse, Mr. Rizzo?” The Jack of Spades asked.

Remote as the possibility seemed, the Jack of Spades knew he would be foolish to ignore Jason Rizzo’s claims without at least looking for himself. If he could eliminate the threat Charles Miller posed, The Deck would not have to be redealt.

. . .

Melissa and the boys had come home to find a replacement for Jim Thompson waiting for them in front of her building. She wasn’t upset that the man had been re-assigned. He was a nice enough, but clueless to the fact that she was not the least bit interested in anything beyond a professional relationship. She had been leered at by men all her life, but she didn’t want to deal with it in her own home.

Qian Chang had barely looked at her since his tear-filled eyes spotted Samuel and Simon. He had been sitting on the front steps as she and the twins approached. He didn’t stand but handed her his FBI credentials. The boys shyly hid behind her, peering cautiously at the sad man.

“Hey, boys.” That was all he said, looking as shy and sad as the boys felt.

Now, three hours later, Simon and Samuel were still awake and more content and calm than she had ever seen them. The mysterious, sad FBI agent read another story to the small boys on his lap. She was jealous of the immediate connection the man had with her twins.

She caught herself. The twins were not hers. She wished they were, but she knew no judge would grant a single lesbian woman permanent custody of two very adoptable boys, even if no other family members were found. There were plenty of heterosexual would-be parents that would kill for a pair of adorable and smart eight-year-old twin boys.

A deep sadness washed over her. She felt the loss of her niece and the pain of not knowing her nephew. She had accepted her sexuality years ago, but the price of her orientation was almost unbearable as she thought of the children she would never be allowed to love. She knew the twins would also be on that list eventually.

Her eyes refocused after several moments to find three tearful faces looking at her from the couch. She saw Qian whisper something into the boys’ ears before giving them a small shove to get them moving.

Samuel and Simon slowly and shyly approached. She chided herself for allowing her emotions to show in front of the distraught boys. They had enough pain in their lives without feeling her's as well. She attempted to swallow her sorrow even as two little hands found her own. The smallest amount of pull brought Melissa to her knees in front of the boys who had captured her heart.

“Are you sad?” Simon asked in his quiet, soprano voice.

She opened her mouth to lie. She was the adult and needed to be strong for the broken boys in her care. Qian cleared his throat, drawing her attention before she could speak. He nodded his tearful face up and down, encouraging her to be honest. She suddenly understood the connection he had with the boys. It was his sadness, which he had openly shared from the moment the three of them had met. She began to cry.

“Yes, Simon.” She thought it had been Simon who asked. “I am very sad.”

“Why?” She found the tiny scar on Samuel’s right eyebrow.

“I’m sad because you are sad,” she said softly before deciding to be completely honest with the boys. “I am also sad because I am all alone. Having you boys here with me makes me feel less lonely though. You two are so special to me.”

Melissa tried to stop; tried to emotionally pull away. She didn’t dare get attached, because it would tear her apart when she had to let them go, just like saying goodbye to Mary had almost eight years before.

The twins wrapped their thin arms around her as she began to cry again. She knew it was too late. The boys were firmly lodged deep in her heart, and it would break again when they too were ripped away from her.

. . .

Jim breathed deeply now that he was free of the city, but he regretted it immediately. The rolling hills of north-central Illinois were a sight, but farm country came with some strong smells all its own.

It was a different kind of beauty than the mountains or oceans most people thought of when they imagined the ideal landscape. The lush green fields and trees of early summer were something to behold for the man who rarely left the concrete jungle he currently called home.

The man couldn’t appreciate that beauty through the night vision scope, however. He had never realized how difficult surveillance would be with no nearby buildings to commandeer. He was prone, surrounded by darkness and almost knee-high corn stalks. The muzzle and scope of the borrowed Barrett M82 rifle peered over the crown of a hill almost one thousand yards from the heart of old farm.

He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but the farm looked exactly like a farm. A long driveway led to an older house, several barns, and a couple smaller outbuildings all clustered together. The structures were contained by a box of mature trees and surrounded by fields planted with row after row of quickly growing grains.

If it weren’t for the obviously-armed men lazily walking between the buildings, the agent would have wondered if they had been given the wrong information. He had yet to see any captive children, but his instincts told him they were there. The boss always told him to trust his gut.

“What do you think Thompson?” The HRT lead asked.

“I think we should get ready to rough it for a while. The pragmatic part of me says we should rent room and take shifts, but my gut says the team needs to stay close. There isn’t a hotel or motel within twenty minutes. If something happens here, we’ll need everyone we’ve got. We have no idea how many tangos there are, nor how many boys they're holding captive.” The more Special Agent Thompson thought about it, the less he liked the situation.

“If it were later in the year, we could camp out in the corn, but the bastards can literally see for miles around this time of year,” the man said worriedly.

“How many of your men are competent at long range?” Thompson asked.

“In decent conditions, maybe three.” Three long guns against an unknown number of armed targets with unknown training didn’t seem like near enough to either man.

“Okay, tonight we watch and learn. I want a count and description of every adult we see, and I want to know where they are holding the boys. We need to know what we are dealing with.” Jim wasn’t trained for military ops, and he found himself wishing Juan Ramos or Daniel Janick had come along.

. . .

“There’s a black limousine approaching.” Agent Fisher thought of the limo that had driven past Charlie Miller's house as one of the lookouts radioed in.

“This is it folks. We need to be noticed, but not too noticed,” he said as he adjusted the Kevlar vest hidden under is suit.

The man stepped out of the warehouse’s small side door, allowing it to close behind him. He felt exposed as he pounded the pack of cigarettes into his palm several times before extracting one and lighting it. He wasn’t a smoker, but it wasn’t the first time he had used the vice in an undercover role. Special Agent Fisher pretended to be an FBI agent once more.

“Weird, fucking case,” he mumbled as he took a short drag, trying not to cough.

One of the old loading dock doors opened next to him, allowing light to pour from the warehouse out into the night. A dark Suburban pulled around the building and came to a stop in front of the open door. Several coveralled agents jumped out and began handing broken and obsolete computer components up to others in the warehouse.

In less than a minute, the SUV was gone, and the large door was closed once more. Ben tried not to stare at the limo parked by the curb several hundred yards away. He suppressed a smile as he dropped the cigarette, crushing it under foot before slipping back into condemned warehouse.

The building had been gutted long ago and was scheduled for use in a live training exercise by the Chicago Fire Department early the following month. Ben Fisher wondered if the building would survive another night. He hoped not.

. . .

The Jack of Spades thought about what he had seen. The warehouse was crawling with Feds. Perhaps the miserable man in front him would survive a few more hours.

“Mr. Rizzo, perhaps you are useful to me after all. The things removed from Charles Miller’s studio must be destroyed. I don’t care how you do it, but it must be done tonight. This is the only opportunity I will give you.” The Jack pressed the intercom button. “Please return Mr. Rizzo to his vehicle.”

“Certainly, sir,” the Two of Spades replied.

. . .

“I love you too.” Brendon Mack said into Roger’s phone as he gazed out into the inky, unending blackness outside the man’s wall of windows. “I will. Yes, Thomas and I will see you tomorrow … goodnight mom.”

“How is she?” Thomas asked from one of the nearby couches after his boyfriend ended the call.

“Mom says she’s fine, but she’s lying. She’s never been alone like this.” Brendon’s voice sounded far away. “Alan is ruining her life too. I feel really guilty Tommy.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. I seem to remember a certain bonehead lecturing me about feeling guilty for things that aren’t my fault. None of this is your fault either.” Thomas stood and made his way into his boyfriend’s arms.

“If I stay here, she could go home. It’s me my da- Alan hates.” The teen’s own hate dripped off his father’s given name.

Thomas didn’t reply immediately. It was tempting to continue his lecture, but he tightened his embrace instead. Brendon didn’t need words, just as Micah hadn’t as he held the boy in Carl Jenkins’ living room. He rubbed the tall teen's back before slipping his right hand under the waistband of his boyfriend’s shorts.

There were many negative consequences of their love. Brendon’s family was disintegrating around him. Thomas understood his feelings of guilt and sadness all too well.

There were some wonderful things about their relationship as well, and the small teen decided to remind Brendon of that fact. He grabbed a handful the thin teen’s backside and squeezed flirtatiously, causing his young boyfriend to yelp.

“I love you, Brendon Mack. We will get through this. Things are already so much better than they were.” Thomas’ words hit both teenagers profoundly.

It had been almost a week since Thomas had met Roger Cicero for the first time. A lot had happened since the attorney's unexpected intervention. So much had changed. As painful as the past few days had been, neither boy could ignore that things had, in fact, improved. They were both free of their individual prisons, standing safely in each other’s arms.

Roger watched the boys from the kitchen island several yards away. He found himself wholeheartedly agreeing with Thomas’ observation as his heart overflowed with love for the broken boys who had turned his lonely, purposeless life inside out.

He looked at Eddie’s watch through fresh tears. It was 10:47 pm. Roger picked up his scattered notes, and softly cleared his throat.

“Neither of you are unwanted. You’ll always have a home with me.” Roger watched warm smiles spread across the young, teenage faces.

“See, Bren? Things are so much better than they were.” Thomas turned to look lovingly at the man who continued to save him every day. “For a mob lawyer, you’re not such a bad guy.”

The unexpected jibe broke the tension, and all three men found themselves laughing harder than the joke warranted. Despite the many remaining fears and challenges that awaited them, they each felt at home and safe together in the soulless, twelfth-floor condominium overlooking Lake Michigan.

. . .

Bright headlights reflected once more into Jason Rizzo’s rearview mirror, but this time he knew who was following him through the inner city. He crossed the Chicago River and drove over the large rail yard for the third time that day.

Riz felt almost maniacal as he drove. His earlier thoughts of Clyde Barrow returned as he looked at the submachine gun on the seat next to him and thought about the cans of gasoline in the trunk. The mobster's emotions had been spiraling out of control from the moment he had learned of Charlie Miller’s arrest. Everything he had worked for was crashing down around him. A mirthless laugh escaped his throat as he pictured himself burning the entire city down once more; a second Great Chicago Fire.

. . .

Ben Fisher slid the detonator into the small block of Semtex and placed it on one of the makeshift workstations the team had assembled only hours before.

“Four vehicles are approaching.” Ben scanned the warehouse and smiled grimly.

Daniel Janick had called in several favors to create the ruse before him. Fake evidence, equipment, furniture, even several skeletons purchased last minute from a local university lab. Ben thought the human bones, dressed in suits drenched in gasoline were a particularly nice touch.

“Fisher, we’ve got to go,” another agent urged.

Ben followed the last remaining team member deeper into the abandoned building. Thirty seconds later he was standing next to his SUV behind the warehouse, trying to catch his breath.

. . .

The Jack of Spades watched Jason Rizzo’s car stop in front of the FBI's incognito command center, followed by three others. He was surprised that the mafia man was working with a local street gang rather than his own organization, but he didn’t care who’s help the man enlisted as long as everything tying The Deck to Charlie Miller was destroyed.

. . .

Riz stepped out of his car. He would have preferred an old Thompson machine gun, but the Uzi in his hands was an acceptable substitute. Twelve young, colorfully dressed black men piled out of the three cars that had followed him. It had cost him twenty thousand dollars and two kilos of cocaine to hire his impromptu army. They had thrown in the untraceable 9mm submachine gun free of charge.

. . .

“I count thirteen armed men preparing to open fire, including Jason Rizzo.” The volume on Ben’s radio was turned down low.

The FBI Agent instinctively ducked as the warehouse was torn apart in a hail of gunfire.

. . .

Jason Rizzo felt alive as he held the trigger. The compact weapon jumped as he emptied a thirty-two round clip into the warehouse before him. Twelve other men pulled triggers of their own.

One minute and several hundred rounds of ammunition later, Riz handed out the fuel cans from his trunk. He watched four of his hired soldiers cautiously approach the bullet-riddled building, expecting the feds to return fire. No response came.

. . .

The atmosphere around Benjamin Fisher rapidly changed. He smelled the smoke before the limited light surrounding the abandoned warehouse took on an orange hue. The ringing is his ears was replaced by the popping, cracking, and whooshing of gasoline-fueled flames consuming the condemned structure.

“Green light.” The voice over the radio prompted him to press the button on the shortwave radio transmitter in his hand.

There was a short delay which made Ben wonder if something had fai-

Boom!

The man smiled despite the anxiety and danger he felt standing unseen behind the faux command center. There was something satisfying about the explosion. Agents weren’t often given the opportunity to blow things up.

. . .

The Jack watched the flames hungrily engulf the building through binoculars from his hidden place in the shadows. He flinched as several of the loading dock doors were blown forward by a fiery explosion from inside the warehouse. He felt the concussive wave and heard the boom moments later.

The man was pleased with the burning carnage he could now clearly see inside the warehouse. Complete destruction was visible through the doors which now looked like violently ruptured soda cans. He focused for several seconds on a body which was already nothing more than burning skeletal remains.

“It’s done.” the Jack of Spades said as he centered Jason Rizzo in his field of view.

The Two of Spades’ reticle was centered on the back of the mobster’s head. A .30-06 Springfield soft point round was chambered in the Remington Model 700 hunting rifle. The Card breathed deeply, holding the air in his lungs as he counted.

One.

Two. He slowly began to exhale.

Three. He lightly squeezed the trigger.

. . .

Jason Rizzo basked in the heat and light of the flames. He watched the FBI Agents’ bodies burn, finding the death and destruction thrilling. Riz heard his gangsta army fleeing but couldn’t tear his eyes from the enthralling sight before him.

It was the last sight he would ever see.

. . .

He heard the shot a split second before he saw its impact. Jason Rizzo’s body pitched forward, his vile dreams dying with him.

“Let’s get out of here, Deuce,” the Jack said to the Two of Spades.

The limo was parked several blocks away. Thankfully, the industrial area was dark and quiet as the two Cards walked briskly away from the burning building and the body lying in a growing puddle of blood.

. . .

“Three vehicles are pulling out,” The FBI agent assigned to overwatch said into his radio.

“Follow at a distance and radio for CPD for back up. It goes without saying, but be careful! Report the fire as well.” Special Agent Fisher’s commands were acknowledged. “What about the fourth vehicle?”

Jason Rizzo’s just standing thei-” A sharp crack interrupted the man observing from a nearby roof. “Holy Shit! Did anyone see where that shot came from?”

There was a rapid round of ‘negatives’ and ‘no, sirs.’

“What’s happening?” Ben Fisher’s voice asked.

“Jason Rizzo’s face just fucking exploded! Where's the sniper?” The man scanned the area through his scope, but the limited field of view made finding anything difficult; especially in the dark.

. . .

A minute later, the Cards were back in the limousine. The Jack of Spades sat back as the stretched Towncar slowly crept from the shadows before accelerating into the night.

The man wasn’t certain the risk to The Deck had been completely contained. He would advise a heightened level of alertness, but he didn’t believe an emergency reshuffle was necessary any longer.

Charles Miller didn’t know any real names or locations. While the man would love to silence Charlie Miller like he had his financier, the man was of little real consequence. One last task remained before he could consider the Ace of Spade’s operation closed for good.

The afterimage of the burning warehouse danced in his mind as he considered Charlie’s merchandise. The Card weighed trying to salvage the boys against simply burning the man’s stable to the ground.

He closed his eyes as he considered the risks and the rewards. Charlie Miller was still in federal custody, which meant he might talk. He needed to decide quickly but knew he wouldn’t be doing anything else before a good night’s sleep.

“Find us a hotel, Deuce,” he said.

“Okay, boss,” the Two of Spades said in response.