He shook his head and pulled into the garage, lifting his hand in greeting to Michael. The man nodded in response, but he didn’t relax, which was enough to kick James’s instincts into high gear. Something was wrong. He shut off the Chevelle and climbed out. “What’s up?”
“Trouble, boss.”
There weren’t any of his men he’d trust beyond a shadow of a doubt, not with Brendan’s specter hanging over them, and his little brother, Ricky, thinking he was hot shit now. Too many of his men didn’t like the slow and steady way James preferred to do business. They thought that he should have taken up the banner of war that his old man had dropped, and run with it. Those damn fools only saw the potential profit of war—not the cost.
Even if James was as bloodthirsty as they wanted him to be, he knew how to look around him and see that the odds weren’t in the Hallorans’ favor. The marriage of Teague O’Malley and Callista Sheridan had allied their two families into a powerful position. Too powerful to fuck with and think he’d come out on top. But these idiots weren’t thinking like that. They didn’t care that the other two families combined had superior numbers and firepower.
And they sure as fuck hadn’t stopped to think about how convenient it was that the feds had shown up right in time to save the day. Someone on the other side was a rat, and a rat high enough up the ladder that the feds felt invested enough to interfere.
It could be Carrigan.
He brushed the thought away and focused on Michael. “Tell me.”
The man shifted. He was always doing that, as if he had run naked through some poison oak or was jonesing for a hit of something. It didn’t help that he looked a whole hell of a lot like a weasel with his narrow face and beady dark eyes. For all that, he was as trustworthy as they come, and he’d never played James false. Yet.
Michael looked away. “It’s Ricky.”
Of course it was. Fuck. He’d gone and mishandled shit back when they were on the verge of war, and ever since then his kid brother seemed determined to be the biggest pain in the ass known to man. Every time James turned around, he was fucking something up or pulling some stunt that put people in the hospital.
Or the morgue.
“What’s he done now?”
Michael shifted again, making him want to shake the answers out of the man. “He and some boys went out joyriding.”
It wasn’t the worst they could have done until…He stopped to think that the last time his brother and his boys went out joyriding, one of the O’Malleys ended up dead. Fuck again. How hard was it to understand James’s order not to do anything to agitate the issue between their family and either of the others who ruled in Boston?
Apparently too goddamn hard. “How long ago?”
“Couple hours.”
Cold settled in his chest, and for once, he actually welcomed it. Cold meant he didn’t have to feel, didn’t have to think about how fucked up his life had gotten. Didn’t have to dread what came next. He just did what was necessary. “And no one thought to pick up a fucking phone and inform me of this?”
Michael flinched. “We tried, boss. You weren’t answering.”
He fished his phone out of his pocket and, sure as fuck, there were three missed calls. Goddamn it. He thumbed through his contacts until he found his brother’s number and dialed. It rang through, the generic answering service setting James’s teeth on edge. He ground out, “Get your ass home right goddamn now, Ricky.”
This was what his life had come to—calling his brother like some sort of fucking parent whose teenager was out of control. His brother was twenty-seven years old. He should be past stunts like this. He was past stunts like this.
James spun on Michael. “Who’d he take with him?”
“Robert and Joe.”
Worse and worse. Those two were more likely to pump Ricky up than keep him from getting into trouble. Shit was going down, and James had been too busy feeling sorry for himself to cut it off before it started. He cursed long and hard.
He had two choices. He could go try to track down his idiot brother and hope he found him before something happened that no one could take back. But that would make him look weak as fuck, and his men would file it away. Even if they didn’t do a damn thing about it now, it would come back to bite him in the ass when he could least afford it.
Or he could wait here and confront Ricky from a position of power.
“Send him to me in the study when he’s back.”
“Will do, boss.”
He stalked into the house, wanting a shower and ten good hours of sleep. Neither was on the schedule at the moment. He went into the study and dropped into the chair behind the desk. The fireplace sat cold and empty, just like it had every day since his old man was taken away. He’d always hated that fire, hated coming in here, where it was so hot it felt like he was walking into hell itself and meeting with the devil.