Ranger - Jericho's Boys #4 - ch. 22 (Patreon)

Unbeta'd/Unedited. Only two more chapters to go including the epilogue. <3

Seven

“How are the boys?”

Enzo rolled his eyes as he hung up the phone. “Mom says they complained for hours after we left. Pretty much proving they were definitely not old enough to participate in a–”

“Murder?” Seven said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Yeah,” Enzo said, shaking his head.

They’d dropped the boys at the house after their visit with Calliope and asked Mama if they could attend the midnight meeting Bethany had set up. It wasn’t Mama who shut the plan down but the boys’ father.

Dario had squashed the idea immediately, saying they should wait until they were adults. If they were caught, it could ruin everything, not just for them but for the whole family. Seven supposed he was right. Had he been caught at that age, he likely would have ended up in a cell right next to his father no matter how hard Jericho would have tried to save him. They didn’t have Freckles back then to use his money and influence. Would he have survived a police interrogation? 

He liked to think so, but he’d barely endured the night terrors that haunted him back then, much less the real-life day-to-day of prison life.Being an accomplice to murder sounded badass until you sat in a cell and realized toughness doesn’t pay for bail, cover commissary or watch your back for you in the showers. The thought of metal bars and fluorescent lights made his stomach ice over. The thought of turning out just like his father was an iceberg in his guts. 

“Are they pouting about it?”

Enzo kept his eyes on the road. The dashboard hummed, tires whispering over the highway seams, music playing softly over the Bose speakers. “No. Mama said they accepted their fate when she agreed they could train to ‘hack the planet’ with Calliope,” he said, amusement threading his voice. “They took off for the movies with their friends hours ago.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess,” Seven said, watching the blur of streetlights blur past the window like smeared paint. The world outside felt distant and unreal, like a stage set, and he hated how much calmer that made him feel.

“Can you go over the plan with me one more time?” Enzo asked, sliding his hand down to take Seven’s where it rested on his thigh. The contact was small and steadying, but also stoked a heat low in his belly.

Seven nodded. “Sure. Bethany arranged to meet Grant and his bosses–who apparently go by Fritz and Ceasar–at an abandoned port owned by Thomas. There’s nothing around for miles, so nobody will hear them screaming. I’m sure they think she’s the stupidest girl alive and they’ve hit payday with her wanting to meet in the middle of nowhere. There’s no doubt they’ll try to shut her up.”

“And she’s okay with that?” Enzo’s voice tightened. 

Seven glanced at him. “As opposed to prison? She chose the risk. She knew what she was doing when she tangled with traffickers and tried to frame my mom.”

“Who’s meeting us there?” Enzo asked.

“The core four,” Seven said.

Enzo frowned. “The what now?”

“The twins and Felix and Zane,” Seven said. “We call them the core four behind their backs.”

“Why?”

Seven smirked, folding his fingers into a complicated configuration. “Because all the Mulvaneys are close, but those four are…extra close.”

They’d all suspected that the relationships between the four went past Zaney and Lixie making out when they were drunk but now that they’d all but confirmed it to the world, it still felt a bit surreal. Seven didn’t have a problem with how they chose to live their lives. What did he care? They were all consenting adults who were clearly crazy in love, but his best friend having not one, not two, but three significant others was a bit…wild. 

“How close exactly?” Enzo asked, a brittle laugh hiding something like curiosity and dread. “Like…Game of Thrones close?”

“Not quite Game of Thrones,” Seven hedged. “More like… CelebrityWife Swap?”

“Seriously?” Enzo said. “So, Asa and Felix and Zane and Avi?”

“With an emphasis on Felix and Zane in the middle,” Seven said. He watched the way Enzo’s jaw tightened at the names. The dynamics of the Mulvaney web were a map of danger, who wanted what and who would kill to keep it.

“You’re saying that Zane and Felix also…”

Seven couldn’t get enough of Enzo’s scandalized expression. “I’m saying their venn diagram is a circle.”

Enzo went quiet, eyes glued to the road, the passing headlights stroking his jaw in white and gold. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, the tendons in his hand standing out like carved lines of tension.

“Are you still thinking about them?” Seven asked, irritation prickling at the thought.

“Huh?” Enzo blinked, glancing at him, genuinely confused, which helped, but only a little. “No. Well, yeah, but not how you think. I was trying to imagine ever being comfortable enough to share you with someone else, and I was just sort of hurting my own feelings. I hope polyamory isn’t on your bucket list, ’cause I’m pretty sure I’d murder anyone who looked at you too long. You’re all mine.”

Seven’s cheeks heated, his pulse skipping in a way that made his chest feel too small. The quiet conviction in Enzo’s voice sank under his skin and stayed there, warm and possessive.

“I’d pluck out someone’s eyes for looking at you too long,” Seven said primly, even as his heart raced. “Just so we’re clear. I don’t share either.”

“Perfect.” Enzo sounded relieved enough that it loosened something tight inside Seven.

“So the…core four are meeting us there?”

“They should be there already,” Seven said. “They went early to scope out the location, get the supplies in place, and make sure Bethany is as safe as she can be.”

Enzo nodded, his thumb brushing over Seven’s knuckles. It was such a small gesture, but it carried weight–an anchor Seven had grown used to having–like he was wordlessly promising that no matter what came next, they’d face it together.

Seven didn’t want to be there.

This used to be his favorite part of any mission. Revenge. Getting revenge for his own mother should have set his blood on fire. Instead, it just left him feeling hollowed out. Exhausted. He wanted these men dealt with already so he could go home, curl up on the couch with Enzo, watch bad TV, and eat good pasta.

The faint smell of gasoline still clung to his hoodie from filling up cans at the middle-of-nowhere gas station in Calliope’s small town. They’d taken advantage of the lack of cameras. The faint tang of iron from the gun oil in his bag made his stomach twist. Everything smelled…violent tonight. Even the sea air through the cracked window felt metallic, sharp on his tongue. A sliver of unease burrowed under his skin, leaving him feeling…off. 

Something cinched tight around his heart at the thought of spending forever with Enzo, living together, working together…should have sounded stifling, but instead it felt inevitable, something already written. He wanted it now. Wanted him now. Wanted married, domestic, safe. The thought startled him. When had marriage stopped sounding like a noose around his neck and started sounding like home?

Once, the word forever had felt like a trap. But with Enzo, it felt like gravity. Even when he’d hated him, he’d loved him.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring until Enzo glanced over and did a double take. “What?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing,” Seven said, cheeks burning.

Enzo smirked, gripping his hand tighter. “That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“I really love you,” he blurted. 

The car jerked slightly, tires biting against asphalt. The horns of passing cars blared around them as Enzo corrected.

“You good?” Seven asked, barely hiding his grin.

Enzo glowered. “You did that on purpose.”

Seven’s mouth curved. “Maaaybe.”

Enzo waited until Seven was lost in his own thoughts before softly saying, “I love you, too, brat.”

Seven turned toward the window to hide the stupid grin spreading across his face, but Enzo brought their hands up, kissing his knuckles.

The warmth of his lips lingered against the cool night air seeping through the window. For the first time all evening, Seven felt something that wasn’t dread. 

Seven really had struck gold with Enzo. A man who supported his career goals, knew exactly how many people he’d killed, adored his mother, fit in seamlessly with the chaos of his life, and could keep up with him in bed. He was a fucking unicorn. 

Seven stayed quiet for the rest of the drive, the music a low hum in the background. His phone buzzed, a message from Felix confirming that Bethany was wired and Kevlared under her hoodie. Seven sent back a quick thumbs-up emoji, the simple motion grounding him.

When they reached the port, he guided Enzo to park a block away, behind an abandoned fish market. The instant he opened the door, the air slapped him, salt and rust thick enough to taste. It burned his nose, sharp and chemical, mixing with the faint, oily tang of seawater gone stagnant.

Most of the streetlights had died years ago, but a few still clung to life, valiant, flickering things that cast uneven pools of yellow light over the cracked concrete. The glow caught on the skeletons of old ships, their hulls eaten by corrosion, and each gust of wind made the metal groan like something alive and dying at the same time.

They used the light from Enzo’s trunk to gear up. The soft click of fasteners and Velcro broke the silence as they pulled on their vests. Seven racked the slide on his Glock 45, checked the magazine, the chamber, and the safety before holstering it at his side. He handed Enzo a weapon of his own after double-checking it out of instinct.

“Do you know how to use this?” he asked.

Enzo’s lips twitched. “I’m hardly Jesse James, but I do okay in a pinch.”

Seven watched as Enzo performed his own check, competent, careful, his movements economical in that way that came from living a life where mistakes got you killed. It was weirdly hot.

Seven wasn’t a gun person. He preferred his work up close and personal. Guns left evidence, casings, residue, noise. Knives were cleaner. He could feel the breath leave their lungs with a blade, knew that as long as the weapon stayed with him, he likely hadn’t left any piece of himself behind. Or maybe that was just a lie he told himself to justify the way he preferred to take someone else’s life. 

The building Thomas had instructed them to use rose up from the fog like a dead leviathan, massive, silent, its windows glazed with grime and sea brine. The weak interior light bled through in patches, making it look less like a warehouse and more like a mirage, something half-born from one of his night terrors. Something about the building gave him the creeps. 

When they reached the rusty spiral staircase climbing the back of the building, Seven tested the first step with his boot. It shifted with a slow, ominous squeal.

“Be careful,” he murmured. “Felix said they’re a bit wobbly.”

Enzo nodded. “Let me go up first.”

Seven opened his mouth to argue but closed it again. They didn’t have time, and Enzo wouldn’t back down anyway. It was one of those protective, maddening things that made Seven’s chest ache and his teeth clench at the same time.

It was quarter to midnight. They still had to get comms active before Bethany’s would-be assassins arrived.

Asa was waiting at the top of the stairs, a dark silhouette against the faint warehouse light. It had taken Seven years to tell him and Avi apart. He used to rely on physical cues—the small notch in Asa’s right ear mirrored on Avi’s left—but now he could just feel who was whom just by vibes.

Asa radiated a particular brand of menace, the kind that felt like standing too close to a live wire. Avi could carve a man open with a smile, but Asa just carried himself with an eerily quiet violence.

He waved them in and mouthed for quiet, guiding them along the widow’s walk that overlooked the cavernous concrete floor below. From that vantage they had a bird’s-eye view: Bethany pacing alone in sneakers and yoga pants, oversized hoodie zipped up to her neck to hide the Kevlar beneath. Her silhouette looked smaller from above, like a dark figure on a stage waiting for the curtain to drop.

Asa led them into a shallow alcove that smelled faintly of old oil and dust. A bucket filled with rancid water and a decayed mop sat nearby, letting him know it had likely once been used for storage. The others were already there. Seven’s eyes snagged on Enzo’s face and found him watching Zane and Felix, each perched on one of Avi’s knees like spoiled royalty. The sight almost made Seven laugh; it was absurd and somehow perfectly Mulvaney.

Asa spoke in a low murmur. “We have eyes on Bethany. Her necklace is a camera.”

Zane flipped his phone so they could all see the world from Bethany’s point-of-view as she walked a small, jittery circle around the space, sneakers scuffing with each step. Seven swallowed. Seeing the world through another’s lens always made things feel closer, smaller, more intimate, and therefore more dangerous.

Asa handed them each a small earpiece. They slid into place with tiny clicks that sounded unnaturally loud in the hush.

“Comms check,” Asa said.

“Check,” everyone answered, voices soft.

They watched Bethany’s head jerk up toward the loft. Movement below made every breath feel conspicuous.

Asa’s eyes were cold when he hissed, “Don’t look up here.” He didn’t raise his voice, but the warning carried. When Zane met his gaze, giving him a stern look, Asa barked a sound that was half irritation and half endearment, before saying, “I know your first instinct is to glance up when you hear us talk, but you absolutely cannot do that. You’ll get us all killed.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Bethany breathed into the cam. “I’m freaking out.” Her fingers fumbled at the hem of her hoodie. Her knuckles showed white in the camera’s grainy feed.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” Seven said, softer than he felt. “But you have to pretend we’re not here. They’ll expect nerves. But if your eyes start darting, they’ll suspect a set-up and start tying up loose ends. You'll be first.”

Bethany nodded. Nothing else; the image on Zane’s phone trembled with the motion.

“What’s the plan?” Enzo asked, the question practical and steady.

“Wait for them to arrive,” Avi said, brandishing a strange, compact weapon that looked like a hybrid between a shotgun and a toy. “Use this to incapacitate them, then have a little fun before they die.” He grinned like a mad man. It made the hairs on Seven’s arms stand up.

Enzo cocked an eyebrow. “What the hell is that?”

“Rubber rounds,” Avi said. “Just enough to ruin their night before we finish them off properly.”

Seven’s lips twitched. Nobody loved a slow, theatrical end more than the twins. He noted Enzo’s composure, the way his jaw stayed loose, how his breath matched the other’s casual cadence. For a moment Seven wondered if the man next to him felt any of the dark anticipation that pooled in Seven like oil. If so, he didn’t show it. Did the others know how jumpy Seven felt on the inside or did he somehow radiate that same outward calm while his insides buzzed like frayed wires? 

Enzo must have noted something, his arm came around his shoulders, pulling him against him. His calm was a heat lamp; it warmed him and made him dangerously complacent.

A harsh metallic scrape crawled through the building like a warning, corrugated metal doors dragging across concrete like nails on a chalkboard. Zane tensed.

“Stay cool, Bethany,” Asa whispered softly. There was no theatrics in it. Just a quiet command, reminding her that their lives were in each others hands. 

She didn’t respond aloud; she couldn’t. Her phone-camera trembled as a shadow moved into frame.

“Grant?” she asked softly, voice trembling.

The man stepped from the shadows. Seven had to fight the snort building inside. The man looked like he’d come straight from the 18th hole. Not a hair out of place. He wore form-fitting khaki's, a pink polo shirt, and brown Sperry topsiders. 

He rushed to Bethany, but she stumbled back, holding up a hand. “Stop.” 

“Bethy? What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice oily and far too casual.

“Don’t ‘Bethy’ me, you prick. Where are the other two?” Bethany snapped, voice brittle. 

“Other two?” he feigned confusion, and that single syllable made every muscle in the alcove coil tighter. His ignorance was practiced, the kind of performance that hid a predator’s patience.

Grant wasn’t just arranging a meeting. He’d had no problems with the other two greenlighting Bethany's demise. Seven could see the serpentine coldness in his gaze even though the image appeared black and white.  

Bethany wasn’t having any of it. “Don’t piss me off, Grant. I’m this close to going to the cops and telling them every–”

“No!” Grant shouted, lurching toward her. The sound echoed up through the rafters. She stumbled back once again, sneakers scraping across the gritty concrete. He froze mid-step, catching himself. “Bethy. Be reasonable. I know you liked Neith. She was a good woman.” Seven’s lip curled in disgust listening to the man talk about his mother as if she was dead. “But if you tell anyone, we can’t keep helping these women.”

“Oh, fuck off, Grant,” Bethany said, giving voice to Seven’s own thought. “I know what you’re really up to.”

“What?” he asked, too fast, too high pitched.

Seven could hear the sneer in her tone as she said, “You trafficked those women and children.”

Grant tilted his head, his expression  morphing into a condescension that made Seven irritated on Bethany’s behalf. “Bethy—”

“Don’t insult my intelligence with some dumbass excuse. I’m tired of dealing with lackeys. I want someone who can pay for my silence. Where are your bosses?”

Grant’s shoulders sagged like she’d finally played her hand. “They’re coming. They’re a few minutes out. This isn’t the easiest place to find. You couldn’t have picked somewhere with better lighting?”

“Should I have asked you guys to meet at fucking Starbucks?” she hissed.

Seven had to admit, he was impressed. Her voice cracked just enough to sell the fear, but her rage was real. It bled through every word like heat through glass.

“No. No, of course not. You did good, Bethy,” Grant said, smiling that nervous politician’s smile that never reached his eyes.

Then came a scuffling sound, heavy boots against concrete, followed by grunts and the screech of the front door dragging shut again.

“Who are they?” Bethany’s voice trembled, sharper now. 

They all stared at the feed, that dread from earlier returning full force as Bethany turned her body and they got a glimpse of their unexpected guests. 

Seven sucked in a knife sharp breath at the same time Enzo did, his heart plummeting into his shoes. There in the doorway were not only Ceasar and Fritz, but Ansel and Elio, the muzzle of a gun pressed to each of their temples. The two teens looked shockingly steady.

For one nauseating second, the world shrank to the flickering glow of Zane’s screen and the tinny sound of Bethany’s breathing. Every instinct in Seven screamed move.

“Those fucking idiots,” Enzo whispered, his horror obvious. His face went pale beneath the warehouse’s sickly yellow light.

“You tell us,” Fritz rasped. His voice was rough, winded, like each breath scraped down his throat. The man was huge, thick-necked and sweating through his shirt, the kind of predator who mistook size for power.

Enzo moved before he realized it, taking a step toward the railing, as if ready to launch himself into the chaos below. A leap that would have easily killed him. Seven caught his arm hard, fingers digging into muscle, giving a sharp shake of his head.

Enzo looked ready to argue–his jaw flexed, nostrils flaring–but Seven turned away before he could speak. He slid out of the alcove, pressing flat against the rusted wall. His pulse thundered in his ears, a low rush that matched the hum of whatever generators powered the meager lights below. Every sound was amplified: the creak of metal, the drip of old rainwater, the uneven breath in his chest. It felt like every microscopic sound was played directly into a microphone, like there was no way they didn’t know he was there. 

“I’ve never seen those boys before in my life,” Bethany swore. Her voice was too high, trembling. “They don’t even look old enough to drive.”

“We just come out here to get a little wasted sometimes, dude,” Elio muttered, letting his muscles go a little lax like they might believe he was already a little intoxicated.

“Yeah,” Ansel said, his tone flat, practiced boredom. “We’re out here all the time. You’re the one trespassing on our territory.”

“Your territory?” Grant repeated, his irritation slicing through his fake calm.

“Yeah, bro,” Ansel said, swaying on his feet, doing a perfect impression of a drunk kid. “We’re here all the time. That makes it ours. Finders keepers.” He giggled, the sound high and reckless.

Elio caught the cue, laughing too loudly, stumbling a little. They had good instincts. Their act was good–too good–but they were improvising on a stage built over land mines. Seven could see the tension in their captive’s shoulders, the way their grips on the guns were too stiff, too tight, ready to snuff out Enzo’s brothers before they even had a chance to live.  

Ceasar snorted, a slight accent surfacing, one Seven couldn’t place. “You’re awfully cocky for two boys who ain’t gonna live long enough to vote.”

Even from this distance, Seven saw Elio swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Still, the kid didn’t flinch. It was obvious they were trying to be brave. “Well, that sucks for you, ’cause our mom has a bit of a temper.” He smiled, shaky but dangerous. “You’ll see.”

Seven felt it then—the shift in the air. The kind that comes right before violence, thick and electric, pressing against his skin like static before a storm. He wanted to shout, to pull them out, but he couldn’t move yet without blowing the whole gig. The fear in his throat tasted like iron.

Fritz gave a strange, rattling sound that Seven belatedly realized was a laugh. “Oh no,” he wheezed, “not your mom.”

“Do something or I will,” Enzo hissed into Seven’s ear. He was talking to the others, not Seven, but he still took the command seriously. Enzo’s voice had that low, dangerous edge that usually had Seven falling like meat off the bone, the tone that meant he was about two seconds away from doing something dangerous. 

“I’ve got it,” Seven said quickly, pulse thrumming in his throat. “I promise I won’t let them get hurt. Just…hang tight. Please.”

“Those are my baby brothers,” Enzo whispered, words thick.

“Trust me, please,” Seven breathed. 

“He’s really good,” he heard Felix say. 

He hoped that was still true. How long had it been since he’d fired a gun? 

“You got this,” Zane whispered. 

Seven took a slow breath, trying to steady the tremor in his hands. His palms were slick with sweat, and his mouth tasted like iron. The warehouse suddenly felt smaller, every echo sharper.

He unholstered his Glock in one smooth motion, thumbing off the safety. There was already a round chambered. He raised the gun, feeling the familiar tension in his shoulders, that deadly equilibrium between precision and panic.

Elio and Ansel weren’t tall, but Ceasar and Fritz were short, squat bastards, just enough overlap to make his shot a nightmare. If he was off by even a millimeter, he wouldn’t be saving Enzo’s brothers; he’d be killing them.

“Yeah, our mother…Francesca Conti,” Ansel spit, clearly expecting the two men to quake at the name.

Instead, Ceasar’s eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. “That cunt’s your mom? Sending her your bodies in pieces will be a pleasure.”

Ansel turned on him fast, too fast. The bravado vanished, replaced by the reckless energy of someone who hadn’t yet learned what fear should feel like.

And then all hell broke loose.

Ceasar hit the ground hard, already raising his gun toward Ansel. Fritz swung his weapon in the same instant, both barrels glinting under the sodium lights.

“Get down!” Seven roared. His voice cracked across the space like a gunshot of its own, the echo almost painful.

Bethany dropped first, then the boys hit the concrete just as Seven fired, once, twice. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space, the recoil slamming into his arm, the muzzle flash lighting the warehouse in brief, violent snapshots.

Two screams followed, echoing off the steel rafters.

Then—crack.

A stray bullet zipped past so close he felt the heat of it before the pain. His cheek burned, hot blood cutting a slick line down his face, the coppery sting blooming instantly. The world tilted sideways, a high, piercing whine flooding his ear.

He staggered back, one hand braced against the rusted wall, the other gripping the gun tight enough to make his knuckles ache. The noise was chaos–boots pounding, voices shouting–but it was all distant, muffled beneath the relentless ringing.

The others surged past him, shadows and movement, heading for the stairs.

When he pushed forward again, vision swimming, he saw Elio and Ansel holding the discarded weapons, hands shaking. Or maybe that was just Seven. Fritz was on his knees, missing two fingers on his right hand, blood spraying in rhythmic spurts like something out of a low-budget horror movie. Ceasar clutched his forearm, a red bloom spreading fast through his sleeve, his hand curled uselessly.

Seven’s breath came short, ragged. Every heartbeat made the cut on his face throb, each pulse echoing in the hollow where his hearing used to be. He’d been aiming for the gun–he knew that–but Ceasar had moved. It didn’t matter now. Both men were on the ground, writhing and howling.

Avi and Asa disarmed the teens who looked a little dazed, though he could practically smell the way they thrummed with adrenaline. Seven reached the top of the stairs just as Enzo brought his boot down on Ceasar’s face. The wet crack that followed was unmistakable. The man’s scream rose, gurgling, then cut off. 

Enzo turned to his brothers. “You fucking idiots.” 

They stumbled back, expecting fury, punishment, but instead Enzo pulled them both into a crushing hug. His shoulders shook once, just once, before he steadied.

Relief washed through Seven, dizzying, warm. They were good. Everything was good. It was fine. They were all gonna be fine. And then the floor shifted. No, not the floor. His balance. The whole world tilted on its axis like gravity had suddenly taken a vacation. What the hell was wrong with him?

He felt the metal edge of the stair catch the back of his boot, then the freefall. Each step met his body like a crowbar-ribs, shoulder, hip-metal biting through fabric. The air left his lungs in a ragged gasp, the world spinning in a wash of light and noise and pain.

“Seven!”

Enzo’s shout broke through the ringing in his ear, the sound stretched and distorted but unmistakable, like he was hearing him from the bottom of a swimming pool. 

He hit the concrete hard, the impact knocking every ounce of air from his chest. His vision went white at the edges, the taste of blood thick in his mouth, the faint echo of Enzo’s boots pounding toward him the only thing tethering him to the world.

Then nothing.