Too many assault cases would do that to a guy.

“I hate wearing this shit. Plus, they know it’s me.” I picked up my bag, slinging it over my shoulder.

The toys would come out to play tonight for a man who betrayed the trust of the family business. I swore The Dictator ran the conglomerate like a mafia, but who was I to judge? I was just a bastard who liked violence to him, which left me shoved into a job that best suited my capabilities.

The job was simple. Elimination.

Reaper was the best man for the jobs that dealt with pulling information–and teeth. His love of violence was second to none.

“How long is the ride, boss?”

Holding out a duffel bag of work items to him, I shook my head. “Stop calling me boss. We’ve been over this; it’s weird. Just Brent. The ride shouldn’t be more than an hour. So, three hours max tonight, and I have a party to get to after this job. Let’s not dawdle, shall we?”

One would think that after a couple of years of working with someone we’d have the names down.

We didn’t.

I mentally prepared myself for another dead body as I hopped on my bike, slipping the helmet over my head. Sure, I was violent, but the dead bodies? Not my favorite.

I preferred punching men in the face and having them put up a good fight with me. Even better when they rightfully accused me of sleeping with their girlfriends. They were desperate to prove their manhood by winning a fight with me... which they never did.

The ride was nice and smooth, keeping up with Reaper as he split traffic was always the fun part. He never cared about his reckless driving with anyone, while I had to at least try not to die. My grandfather’s conglomerate, Chamberlain Industries, would be mine one day, seeing as I was the sole heir. It died with him if I didn’t get my hands on it.

We used a spot owned by an associate’s real estate company for a lot of our less-than-professional dealings, and this site was no different. A place under construction and heavily monitored by us was the perfect spot to, well, execute.

Reaper hopped off his bike, his weight lifting off it made it look as if it gasped in relief. He was a beefy motherfucker and somehow got giddy at each job he could get violent at. His body looked ready to crush heads with his biceps and insane amount of muscle. However old he was, he looked to have spent his entire life in the weight room with the goal of not fitting into door frames. Where I was built for speed, he was built for brute strength.

I wondered what his free time looked like some days. Other days, I didn’t want to know.