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She came over and did the fastest vitals check John had ever seen. Then she popped open her doctor’s bag and took out a needle and a vial.

“Is he alive.”

All four of them looked toward the bathroom’s doorway. Zsadist was standing there, feet planted, scarred face pale.

"Is he . . .” Z’s eyes drifted over to what was on the floor next to the Jacuzzi. “Alive.”

Doc Jane looked at John and hissed, “Get him the fuck out of here. Now. He doesn’t need to see this.”

John’s blood went cold from what he saw in her face: She wasn’t sure she could bring Phury back.

With shock rolling through him, he stood up and went over to Z.

“I’m not leaving,” Zsadist said.

“Yes, you are.” Doc Jane held up the syringe she’d filled and pressed the plunger. As a hair-width stream of something shot out the tip, she turned back to Phury’s body. “Qhuinn, you stay with me. Blaylock, go with them and shut the door.”

Zsadist opened up his mouth, but John just shook his head.

It was with the oddest calm that he stepped to the Brother ’s face, put his hands on both the guy’s arms and pushed backward.

And it was in stunned silence that Z let himself get walked out of the room.

Blay shut the doors and stood in front of them, blocking the way.

Z’s bleak eyes held on to John’s.

All John could do was stare right back into them.

"He can’t be gone,” Zsadist said hoarsely. “He just can’t be. . . .”

Chapter Forty-four

"What do you mean, work?” the guy with the prison tats said.

Lash put his elbows on his knees and looked his new best friend in the eyes. How the two of them had gone from loudmouth loggerheads to cozy as kittens was a testament to the powers of seduction. First you hit head-on to establish equality. Then you showed respect. Then you talked about money.

The other two, the ’banger with, Diego RIP, around his collarbones, and Mr. Clean with the chrome dome and the combats, had inched in and were listening, too. Which was another part of Lash’s strategy: Draw the toughest one in and the others will follow.

Lash smiled. “I’m looking for help with enforcement.”

Prison Tat’s stare was full of dirty deeds done dirt cheap. “You run a bar?”

“Nope.” He glanced at RIP. “Guess you could say it’s territorial.”

The ’banger nodded like he knew all the rules of that board game.

Prison Tat flexed his arms. “What makes you think I’d carry on anything wichu? I don’t know you.”

Lash leaned back so his shoulders were against the cinder blocks. “Just thought you’d like to make some green. My bad.”

As he closed his eyes like he was going to sleep, he heard voices that popped open his lids. An officer was bringing another offender down to the holding cell.

Well, what do you know. The guy with the eagle jacket from Screamer’s.

The newbie was let in, and the three hard-asses pulled their glaring, watch-yer-ass welcome wagon. One of the junkies looked up and offered a watery smile like he knew the guy in a business capacity.

Interesting. So the guy was a dealer.

Eagle Man sized up the crowd and nodded to Lash in recognition before taking a seat on the other end of the bench. He looked more annoyed than scared.

Prison Tat leaned into Lash. “Didn’t say I weren’t interested.”

Lash shifted his eyes over. “How do I find you to talk terms?”

“You know Buss’s Bikes?”

“It’s that Harley rehab place on Tremont, right?”

“Yeah. Me and my bro own it. We ride.”

“Then you know more people who could help me.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“What’s your name?”

Prison Tat’s eyes narrowed. Then he pointed to a depiction of a Harley low-rider that was inked on his arm. “You call me Low.”

Diego RIP’s foot started tapping, like he was holding something in, but Lash wasn’t ready to tango with the gangs or the skinheads. Not yet. Starting small was safer. He’d see if he could add a couple of bikers to the Lessening Society mix. If that worked out, then he’d go trolling. Maybe even get his ass arrested again as an entrée.

“Owens,” a cop called out at the door.

“Laters,” Lash said to Low. He nodded at Diego, the skinhead, and the dealer and left