Thirteen

Lincoln

The unmistakable sound of someone cocking a shotgun is the last thing I want to hear when I open the door to Commodore’s house.

“You piece of shit! That was my trout. I’ve been waiting to catch him for a goddamned year.” Magnus Gable’s voice is just as distinctive as the gun.

“Not my fault you’re a piss-poor fisherman!”

Another shotgun cocks.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Hey! Lower the—”

Boom. Boom.

I shove the door open and rush into the house to see Commodore aiming for a second shot from his motorized chair. Blood drips down his face.

“Missed me, you bastard!”

“Sir, you’re bleeding!”

Goose hops up off the boards of the deck and trots toward me. The damn dog is a hell of a lot less concerned by the guns being fired than I am.

Commodore shakes his head, splattering blood on the leather armrest. “Shrapnel. Just a scratch. Gable’s buckshot took a chunk out of the goddamn house. Now I’m gonna break his windows.”

“Cease fire or I’m calling the cops on both of you!” I yell loud enough so there’s no way Magnus can’t hear me, even being partially deaf.

“You raised a pussy, Riscoff!” Magnus yells. “My kin would grab a gun and join in!”

I pull out my cell phone, not in the mood to get shot this morning. “Last chance before I dial the sheriff.”

Commodore shoots me a cutting look. “Put the damn phone away. You’re making me look bad.” Blood streams down the side of his face, turning his white beard red.

“Here’s the deal—you put the feud on hold for first aid and business, and then you two can go back to shooting each other all you want after I’m gone.”

Commodore’s glare would frighten the piss out of a lesser man, but I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I’m not about to let Magnus Gable put a bullet in him today, not when I’m still working out my strategy for going after his grand-niece.

Commodore wipes the blood away from his face and looks down at his hand. “Superglue and duct tape are in the kitchen drawer. I don’t need no damn first-aid kit. And mind yourself when you’re talking to me. You don’t run me, son. I run you. Don’t forget it.”

My jaw clenches at the reminder. “Maybe I should just let the two of you kill each other, and then I’d have a hell of a lot less problems to deal with.”

Commodore sputters as I head for the kitchen.

I respect the man and the sacrifices he made to get Riscoff Holdings to where it is today, but he’s living in the past, and by staying there, we’re not going to thrive. I spent last night reviewing information on the acquisition I want to make, not only because I was trying to keep my mind off Whitney, but also because we have to diversify again. Otherwise, we’re going to wither instead of flourish.

Commodore isn’t going to like it. I already know it, but I need his sign-off to enter the auction process to get our hands on one of the most lucrative new tech companies that has the intellectual property we need to revolutionize the next generation of transportation.