They’d been taken down one of the hallways at the back of the warehouse. As Cian had anticipated, he was released moments after he was out of the public’s view -- the detainment had been more a matter of keeping order than anything else.
Cian Wilde was a man who played by the rules -- those who knew him had always found evidence of it -- but even then, he’d bend where he had to, to survive.
He wasn’t the kind for a proud, honorable death.
They had some makeshift cells in the back, for competitors who needed to cool their heads, no doubt. That was where they were brought, but the guards lingered at the door, clearly unsure. These weren't hotheaded competitors to be slapped on the wrist. “Keep gloating,” said Marek through gritted teeth.
Cian gave him a flat look and said, “You’re lucky to be alive, asshole. I have to know,” he continued, “did you think you’d come sidle up to my weak side, start snapping there?” He sneered. “Lesson for you: things aren’t always what you think they are. Thanks for helping me show all of them out there that we’re a united fucking front, asshole. Still think someone will try to play us against each other after that?”
Marek spat; Cian stepped out of the way just in time. “Always knew you got in with the boss because of his little whore daughter; if he could see you now --”
The statement was cut off with a yowl; Cian had casually kicked him in the thigh, where his pant leg was red with blood from a bullet wound. “The boss,” he said, “is me.” Then, to the guards, “Get them out of here. Butcher Street, separate rooms, full security. We’ll have a chat later.”
Because if he knew Aisling Wilde, she’d be storming in here any minute to have Words with him.
To Neil, he said quietly, “There’s a woman in the security room, see that she’s cared for. If she wants to see me, let her know I’ll be there shortly. If she wants to leave, that’s fine too.” He’d find his way to the prophetess eventually. He owed her big. So many debts, and usually for the life of a woman who still thought he hated her guts.
Life was a fucking comedy.
Neil nodded, then, quietly, said, “Thank you.”
Before Cian could decide just what to say to that, hurried footsteps came down the hall.
Aisling Wilde was in a Mood. Truce or no fucking truce, that stunt had been unacceptable. There were going to be explanations that needed to be given - a public recap of what had happened to the rulebreakers, an acknowledgement that the fuckers were all banned (or, in Marek’s and Tybir’s cases, probably dead). Still more fucking work to be done and the worst part of the entire fucking thing was that she had lost.
(She still wasn’t thinking about the fact that she’d come about this close to kicking the bucket out there. If Cian hadn’t been out there with her, then she’d have been dead; no way in fucking hell Phillip would have stood a chance against them. That was something she’d have to think about later. Later, later, always later.
One of these days, she was actually going to have to fucking deal.)
Neil sidled past her, nodding in acknowledgement on his way to Faram knew where. Cian was standing nonchalantly in the room, as though he hadn’t just pulled a gun on a fucker and shot him in the leg. It wasn’t that he’d shot Marek - she was honestly surprised he didn’t just shoot him between the eyes - but that he’d even felt the fucking need to bring a gun after he’d told her to search everyone.
Which reminded her, another fucking thing to deal: how the fuck did Tybir and Marek get those weapons into the warehouse? She had her suspicions, which she’d share with Cian when she could look at him without wanting to strangle him.
“Nice night for a gunfight,” she greeted. She could be nonchalant, too. Fuck, she could be rainbows and unicorns if she needed to be.