Title: The Power Behind The Throne
Author: Rose_the_Hat
Pairing: Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 29,000
Summary: In which Jensen is a powerful mob boss and Jared is his Enforcer…and so much more.
Notes: This is the product of reading too many M/M mafia romances and listening to too much Type O Negative. Apologies in advance for all the Type O references and for putting the late great Peter Steele in this but I couldn’t resist.
Beta’d by![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jdl71
1 – Blood & Fire
It only takes seconds after emerging from unconsciousness for Jensen Ackles to realize he is in dire trouble. The fact that his lover for the past fifteen years, Jared Padalecki, is not next to him tells him this.
His head is pounding as if a cannon is being fired inside his skull. His mouth might as well be stuffed with cotton and his throat feels swollen. He takes a quick personal inventory. He’s obviously been knocked out, drugged, is his best guess going by the hangover-like symptoms he’s experiencing. Jensen does not partake of illicit drugs nor drink to excess. His next realization is that he is naked. If Jared were next to him this wouldn’t be an issue. He’s not in a bed. The rough surface under his cheek informs him he’s on some kind of concrete surface.
What the fuck is going on? Where am I?
He breathes in and smells dank and wet though the surface he is on feels dry.
Underground somewhere, he surmises. A basement?
He lies as he is, lax and keeping his breathing even, listening. There seems to be no ambient sound.
Soundproofing? Insulation?
He slowly opens his eyes. Impenetrable blackness greets him. His heart, which had been starting to slip into a more easy rhythm, ratchets back up. He can’t see.
Have I been blinded?
He presses his fingertips to his eyes feeling for damage, but feels only his lashes, eyelids, and the shape of his intact eyeballs beneath them.
However bad he had thought his situation was, he was beginning to understand it was worse. How much worse, he cannot guess. Gears click and whirr in his mind, putting it together. He’s been kidnapped and is being held somewhere.
Who could be responsible for this? The Italians? Jensen dismisses the idea. Italians have a way of doing things, steeped in tradition from the Old country. This definitely isn’t that. Apart from that, his Organization and the Italians have an easy peace between them going back decades. They don’t infringe on each other’s territory. They give respect and receive it in return.
Some rogue mobster wannabe then? If this is the work of an amateur or a rogue that makes shit hard to predict.
What’s the last thing I remember?
He searches his mind for what he remembers before he woke up wherever the hell he is.
Jared and I were on a date.
They had been chowing down on some good barbecue at a little joint that launders money for the Organization. Then Jensen had said he wanted to hear some Bob Seger. Jared got up to feed the juke some coins and Jensen went to piss. Night Moves had started to play as he went into the Mens.
Then… He can’t recall anything after shaking off and tucking away his cock.
Whoever took him was lying in wait in that bathroom. Waiting for the one time Jensen would be alone. Well, Jared might have come in with him for a quick handjob or blowjob but he hadn’t.
Or had he? Is it possible Jared is responsible for this? No. No goddamn way. Jensen is disgusted with himself for even allowing that thought to enter his mind. There is no one else on this whole godforsaken plant he trusts more than Jared Padalecki.
Whoever had him knew his movements and routines. They knew that he went out to dinner, his most trusted Enforcer in tow, a couple of times a month, usually to an upscale restaurant where abducting him would have been harder. They had waited patiently for Jensen to go to a more casual restaurant before they struck.
While Jensen was a public figure—a multi-millionaire philanthropist as well as an oil and tech mogul, and it was whispered in certain circles that he was the leader of an organized crime syndicate— this could hardly be the work of a stalker.
Eliminating the Italians and a stalker, that would leave someone in his own Organization. Who? Who would have the audacity the fucking balls to fucking do this? Not only to do it, but the sheer hubris to think they will get away with it?
Anger pulses through him. He’s naked, blind, trapped in a pit, and fucking helpless. He wants to rail and scream curses at his unseen enemy, but he can’t. Helpless he might be, but he will not show weakness. He has to remain in control of himself. It had been one of the first lessons he had learned.
Jensen was sixteen when his father first called him into his office. He pushed the solid oak door open and stepped across the threshold. His father’s blond hair, not as pure gold as Jensen’s own, was turning to a fashionable iron grey and was pushed back from his forehead. Square of jaw and with a forbidding manner, “Iron” Alan Ackles sat behind his large and imposing walnut desk. Jensen took in his father and wondered if he would ever be like that. He always felt clumsy these days and very—not stupid, because his grades were always aces—but ignorant. There was so much he didn’t know, but he wanted to learn.
“Yes, sir?” Jensen said, closing the door behind him.
His father didn’t immediately say anything. Rather, he examined Jensen, seeming to x-ray him. Jensen felt very lacking. While his last growth spurt had brought him to six feet in height, he was scrawny, delicate even. He wasn’t really popular at school, but people didn’t step to him. Even the bullies didn’t want to mess with the son of Alan Ackles.
“How are you doing, son?”
Jensen shrugged. “I’m good, Dad.”
Another lengthy pause. Jensen stood still. He couldn’t fidget or show any kind of weakness. He was being tested. He knew what this was about, had been looking forward to it more than getting his license or a car.
“You know what we do. You’re my only son. My heir. It’s only right you take over after I’m gone. Or decide to retire. But to do that, you need to learn. You think you’re ready?”
Jensen’s heart gave a joyous leap but he kept his face blank. He has spent years watching his father, how he is always calm and in control, even when it felt as if the world was coming down. It’s hard for Jensen to emulate that while in the throes of puberty, but he was determined to show his father that he can. He inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”
So Jensen’s education in organized crime began. His father started him at the bottom of the totem. That was how Alan had learned and felt Jensen couldn’t run the business without knowing all aspects of it. For the rest of his high school career it was known that if you wanted some really good shit for a party you went to Jensen Ackles. His goods were pricey but always primo and because of that he cultivated a nice customer base.
In college it was more of the same. His father added collecting from bookies and pimps to his list of duties and occasionally roughing up those that didn’t pay on time. While Jensen was still lithe he had begun to fill out, he had grown another inch in height and his chest and shoulders were increasingly broad. Jensen also amassed a small, but loyal, group of friends. He dubbed them his Inner Circle and brought them into the Organization. Steve Carlson, nicknamed Stevie Guitar. He had flunked out of UTD because he cared more about playing his music than being a draftsman. Tom Welling was a tall handsome man with wavy black hair and intense blue eyes, thus earning him the nickname Tommy Blue. Jason Manns, nicknamed Lazy Jase because of his easygoing laid back manner. Rounding out the group was Christian Short. He was indeed lacking in height and resented the fuck out of it. He called himself Chris Cain because he liked to raise Cain; he was a contrary bastard, so he spelled it K-A-N-E. It had been Kane who had inadvertently given Jensen a nickname of his own: Pretty Jenny. Kane had said it flippantly, but like ink in water once spilled it could never be called back. Jensen knocked out three of Kane’s teeth and dislocated his jaw for it. Because they were friends, Jensen paid for Kane’s dental work. Kane never used the name again, nor did anyone in Jensen’s Inner Circle, but, still the name spread and, worse, it stuck. Jensen never did forgive Kane for that.
“Pretty” though he may be, Jensen wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He beat the shit out of those he had to; he helped clean-up crews dispose of bodies, and assisted in interrogations. The first time he killed he was nineteen. He had been making the rounds, collecting from the prostitution rings and escort services. But over the course of four months Jensen began to realize that the numbers didn’t add up. A little digging and some interrogation later revealed the madam of the escort service was skimming from the take. She tried to finesse and cajole him, but Jensen could not be fooled. He shot her twice, with a silencer on his .38, and took the missing money. He thought he would feel more guilt about taking a life. But he didn’t. He’d done what he had to. She was taking what belonged to him and his Organization and had to be eliminated. Alan had allowed Jensen to install a new madam in the house and oversee the prostitution rackets. It was his first real promotion and he was damn proud.
The year before Jensen was set to graduate UTD Alan called him into his office again. Once again Jensen knew what it was about, only this time he was not eager for the conversation. Between his sophomore and junior year Jensen met a man named Sterling Brown and fell ass over tea kettle in love with him. While he had had crushes and cases of puppy love, he had never before been In Love. He was not sure how his father would feel about having a gay son and eventually leaving his Organization to that gay son. Jensen knew if he had to choose between Sterling and the Organization, he would choose the Organization though doing do would break his heart.
“Come in, son,” Alan responded to Jensen’s knock.
Jensen was twenty-one but he always felt like that trembling boy of sixteen whenever he entered his father’s inner sanctum.
“Hey, Dad.”
Alan stood and Jensen took his father’s measure, noticing how the grey had overtaken the blond of his hair and how heavily lined his face had become. Alan was getting old and it scared Jensen.
His father clapped him on the shoulder before pulling him into a hug. It surprised Jensen, given what he knew this conversation must be about. “Been too long,” Alan said.
Jensen returned his father’s embrace, feeling his heart clench. He has been so caught up in managing his parts of the business, keeping up with his schooling, hanging out with friends, and being with Sterling that time for his father has fallen by the wayside. He felt vaguely ashamed. “Yeah. It has.”
Alan released Jensen and returned to his customary place behind his desk. He folded his hands together and pinned Jensen with a stern but sympathetic gaze. “Don’t feel too badly, Jensen. You’re a young man, leading your own life. It’s the way of things.”
Hearing his father say that eased some of the guilt, but he was still filled with tension for what he knew was coming, the real reason for his summoning. Sterling had offered to come with Jensen for support but Jensen refused.
“I want to talk to you about the young man you’re involved with.”
Jensen swallowed and tried to keep his poker face firmly in place. Stay in control, he chided himself. He had to stay in control. That lesson had been drilled into him from the time he was sixteen. His stomach was twisting in on itself. He felt nervous sweat starting to break out in his pits. He hadn’t made a secret of his sexuality but he wasn’t waving a rainbow flag either. Who he loved and fucked was his business and Jensen was raised to keep his business to himself. Keep it under control.
“I don’t care about you being a homosexual, son.”
Jensen relaxed a fraction. He knew there was a ‘but’ coming.
“But others will,” Alan added, gravely. “And I don’t mean the world at large. I mean others in our business. It has a deep culture, Jensen, as I’m sure you’re aware. Very masculine. Very macho. While I don’t care, and I’m sure your circle of friends don’t care, others we do business with and rivals will. They will try to use it against you, say you are weak, or less than because you prefer gentlemen instead of ladies. They will try to undermine you, chip away at your authority, and influence.”
“You saying I should beard?” Alan looked puzzled so Jensen explained. “A shield. A woman to date, and be seen with.”
Alan waved a dismissive hand. “I’m saying no such thing. You shouldn’t be anything other than what you are. I’m just telling you to be aware. Also know that any man you become involved with also becomes involved in our world. You unintentionally put a target on them. Others may try to use them to get to you, or me. You know that is why your mother prefers to live abroad. Make sure the man you choose understands what he’s getting involved in.”
As it turned out Sterling didn’t know and when he did wanted no part of Jensen. So, Jensen suffered his first true heartbreak. He would make sure the next man he became involved with knew the score.
Jensen is pulled back from his early days to his current predicament by bright light flooding down from directly above him. He slams his eyes shut for a moment before forcing them back open. He needs any information about where he is and who has him. He isn’t going to get it with his eyes closed. He raises a hand in an attempt to block out some of the light while his eyes adjust. Through half-closed eyes Jensen takes in his surroundings. He’s in some kind of cement pit, probably twelve or fifteen feet deep, and the walls are smooth, meaning it’s too high for him to jump and attempt to scratch and claw his way out. Not that it would matter. The next thing Jensen notices is a heavy barred trapdoor across the opening of his subterranean cell.
The hinges of the trapdoor creak and all Jensen can make out is a hulking outline of a man before an empty five gallon paint bucket is tossed down to him. It glances off Jensen’s forehead before hitting the floor. The trapdoor is slammed shut and there is the heavy click of a lock before the light vanishes, leaving Jensen once more in total darkness.
Jensen knows enough about prison—not from personal experience, the Organization’s attorney, Julian Richings, is far too skilled to have ever allowed him to get locked up—to know what the purpose of the bucket is. A bathroom. Meaning whoever has him plans on keeping him for a while. Jensen sits back against the wall of the pit, legs stretched out and crossing his feet at the ankles. It’s a waiting game. That’s okay. He can wait. Eventually his captor will show himself—or herself, Jensen supposes.
Or….
In the dark, an almost sinister smile splits Jensen’s lips. Or Jared finds me. Crossing his arms across his broad chest, Jensen’s grin widens. Whoever has him will rue the day they planned this foolish enterprise. Jensen can only distantly imagine what unholy vengeance Jared will rain down on them. He’s almost eager for it, not only because it means he’ll be free, but because Jared doing his thing is really fucking hot.
Almost from the very beginning it seems Jared has always been there for him. Jared will come, Jensen reflects, and he won’t come alone.
Alan died of a heart attack when Jensen was twenty-four. By that time he had handed over most of the reigns of his business’, both legal and illegal, to Jensen. While he gained a reputation as a shrewd businessman, reserved and stoic, he was still haunted by that Pretty Jenny nickname and at times found it hard to be taken seriously. His frame had filled out in muscle but his face was still too feminine; wide eyes too guileless and his full mouth garnered all the wrong attention.
He cultivated a favorable public image with his many philanthropic enterprises. Jensen founded the Ackles Art Endowment, which pretty much kept the local PBS stations on the air, the Ackles Scholarship Foundation, which awarded full academic scholarships to teens from low income areas, and The Ackles Disaster Relief Grant, which gave funds to those who were affected by the tornadoes that often devastated Texas. As much as Jensen liked the good PR, those endeavors were great tax write offs. He invested in a few start-up tech companies that went on to yield healthy profits. Jensen felt that the many and diverse legitimate businesses provided a better screen for their illegal activities. He had just been named Dallas’ Most Eligible Bachelor for the first time when he met the love of his life, Jared Padalecki.
Jensen had been hearing his guys talk about a couple of guys nicknamed Big ‘n Little for a couple of months now. First time he had heard them mentioned had been from Kane and his East side crew. Big ‘n Little had been working on the loading dock at Transportation Solutions, one of Jensen’s legitimate businesses that he used for illegal purposes, or shaking down people that owed money. Since Big ‘n Little joined Kane’s crew the payments poured in at a steady pace and usually in full. That made Jensen very happy so when Big ‘n Little requested a face-to-face with him he was more than amenable.
As the two men entered his office it was obvious the nicknames Big ‘n Little were something of a joke. Both men were very tall. Big stood a towering six foot seven inches tall; Little probably topping out at six foot four. Big’s jet black hair hung way past his massive shoulders. His heavy dark brows framed brooding grey-green eyes. He was dressed simply in black jeans and faded olive green t-shirt. Jensen estimated his age to be somewhere around his late twenties or very early thirties.
Jensen’s gaze moved from Big to his companion, Little. He was similarly dressed in loose fitting ripped and faded jeans and white t-shirt. He appeared several years younger than the other man, going by his boyish features. When Jensen met his eyes an electric charge zipped through him followed by a rush of heat and desire he hadn’t ever felt before. He guessed Little felt it as well judging by the slight uptick of brow and the tiniest hint of a smirk.
Putting his best poker face firmly in place Jensen rose from behind his desk to greet his visitors. “Gentlemen. What are your names? Or what do you want me to call you?”
Little spoke first in a smooth baritone. “I’m Jay,” he indicated himself. Then, he hooked a thumb over to Big. “He’s Petey.”
“Petrus Ratajczyk and Jared Padalecki, sir,” Big, or rather Petrus said in a basso voice so low it was practically felt more than heard.
“Those names are a mouthful.”
Jared’s cat-like eyes flashed predatory for an instant. “They’re Polish descent.”
“A little Russian, too, in my case,” Petrus added with a shrug. Jensen detected a northern accent of some kind but he couldn’t place it.
Jensen shook each man’s hand, that frisson of desire pulsed through him again when he took Jared’s. “Have a seat and tell me why you wanted to meet with me.” He motioned toward the chairs in front of his desk. The two men waited until Jensen was seated before sitting themselves. Respectful. Jensen liked that very much. “I’ll assume it must be highly confidential or you would have gone to Kane with it.”
Both men’s faces were stony and serious now that they were getting down to business. “Yes, sir. It ain’t that we don’t trust Kane, but he always has a lotta eyes and eaahs around ‘im,” Petrus said speaking with a heavy New York accent.
“It’s them we don’t trust,” Jared chimed in. “Most of the guys don’t pay attention to Petey and me. They think we’re all muscle and no brains so we hear things. Not good things.”
Jensen’s interest was instantly piqued. “And those things would be?” He prompted.
The two men exchanged glances, obviously silently communicating. Jensen wondered what the relationship was between them. They were at complete ease with each other in a way that spoke of years of friendship. More than friends? Jensen wondered and a stab of jealousy pierced him.
“On the surface it sounds like the usual shit-talk anybody does about their boss,” Jared began. Where Petrus had a New York accent Jared’s was pure Texas. “They call you pretty or,” his eyes darted around and there was a subtle bloom of color in his cheeks.
“They say you’re a fag,” Petrus said blithely. “That you may act like your fatha but you ain’t nuthin’ like ‘im.”
Jensen clenched his jaw so hard he thought he heard a back tooth crack. It’s not being called a gay slur that bothered him; it’s the intimation that he is not the man his father was because of Jensen’s looks and sexuality.
Jared continued. “They say you care too much about your do-gooder public image to really keep an eye on everything,” He paused for a second before lowering the boom. “They’re talking about going into business for themselves.”
Jensen swallowed down the white-hot anger. No, he can’t have eyes everywhere which is why his closest most loyal friends are in places of high power. Anything that happens under them will get back to Jensen and justice will be swiftly meted out.
Jensen leaned back in his chair, resting his chin between his thumb and forefinger. He observed each man more carefully, pondering what Jared said about how others in his Organization perceive them. There was indeed a lot more to these two than just size, Jensen thought. Jensen surmised people see Petrus’ size, heard his accent, and assumed him to be a stereotypical dumb palooka. To Jensen he seemed straightforward and pensive. People might look at Jared and see an immature boy, but Jensen sees eyes that are too old for such a young face. He saw cleverness and cunning as well. Alan taught Jensen to see beyond the surface and under the surface of these two he saw hungry, intelligent, loyal men.
“Why come to me with this?” He finally asked. “You’re new to the Organization. Why not throw in with these talkers? Try to get while the gettin’s good?”
Jared shrugged a shoulder. “Kane talks about you; says you like loyalty. Petey n’ me have had it rough for a lotta years. I figure we get in good with you we’ll have it a lot better.”
Jensen nodded. Honesty, a quality he appreciates. A quality usually found in his Inner Circle men. Could he be looking at two new members? “Do you know the names of any of the men doing the talking?”
“We’re still kinda new so we ain’t too good on names,” Petrus said. “But a couple of the guys deal with the trucks.”
“Ty Olsson?” Jensen inquired, sitting up. “Forty-ish? Not as tall as me? Not too heavy but not thin? Short brown hair? Scruff? He’d be the head of the trucking operations,” Jensen supplied.
“That sounds like him,” Jared nodded.
“Do you know who his accomplice is?” Jensen asked.
“Not by name,” Petrus said. “He’s older. Got alotta wavy haiah with a thick beahd,” Petrus added. “Going kinda grey.”
“Tim Omundson.” He was head of the gun running operations and since the trucks were used to run the guns, naturally, they would need to work together.
“That guy with the fuckin’ ugly crescent moon face,” Jared said breaking into Jensen’s thoughts.
“Ritchie the Chin.” Richard Speight Jr. who worked overseeing the chop shops.
“Those fences who deal with the pawnshops are running their mouths, too.”
“Freddy Lehne and Mark Pellegrino. That all of them?” Jensen asked. Shit. He had five potential traitors high up in his Organization. Ty and Tim had started working under Alan when Jensen was fifteen. Maybe it should surprise Jensen that men who followed his father don’t seem as willing to follow him.
“Yeah. What do you want us to do? Kill ‘em?” Jared asked and Jensen detected an eager light in the young man’s eyes.
Petrus rolled his eyes at Jared’s comment, and hit him with the toe of one heavy-looking boot.
Jensen revised his opinion of the younger man. Clever and sly, but maybe a little dangerous. That made for one hell of a combination. If Jensen could earn his loyalty he had no doubt he’d have a soldier who’d go to the ends of the earth for him. Given what they just told him he needed men like that.
“No,” Jensen answered. “Keep doing what you’ve been doing: watching and listening. However, if the talk becomes more than idle bullshit I want you to come to me.” Jensen grabbed a slip of paper and wrote down his private phone number. He stood and pulled out his money clip. He peeled off five one-hundred dollar bills for each man, tucking his phone number into the bills he intended for Jared. He came from behind his desk, and extended a hand to Petrus.
“Will do, sir,” Petrus said, shaking Jensen’s hand and taking the folded bills, briefly looking at them, before tucking them into his jeans pocket.
“Thanks for seeing us, Boss Man,” Jared said shaking Jensen’s hand. If he noticed the slip of paper he gave nothing away.
Two and a half weeks later, Jensen was in the sitting room of his bedroom, seated in a heavy wingback chair, enjoying a late breakfast of buttery croissants, crispy bacon, and black coffee. He’d been staring at the same article in the Wall Street Journal for the last half hour, not really taking in anything. His mind kept returning to Jared Padalecki, as it had been doing since Jensen met the man. He hadn’t expected him to call the night he gave Jared the phone number but he had expected him to call soon after. Jensen felt like a preteen girl waiting for her crush to call; he felt stupid. Maybe he had misjudged the young man’s interest. Jensen knew he’s a good-looking dude, maybe that was as far as Jared’s interest in him went. He sighed, folded his copy of the Wall Street Journal and tossed it down on the table beside him, and gazed out the wide bay window at the flowers and fountains in the back garden.
Without knocking Kane and Stevie Guitar charged in. Jensen was instantly alert, no one came into his personal quarters without permission and certainly not without knocking. He pushed to his feet, noting the tense set of each man’s face.
“We got a problem, Jensen,” Kane said. Jensen’s gut clenched. Jared. He has no idea why his first thought was of Jared but it was. Maybe the reason Jared hasn’t called was that Ty and his co-conspirators found out about Jared and Petrus informing on them. Maybe Ty got rid of them.
“What?”
“There was an 18-wheeler of ours hijacked earlier today. It was carrying a load of AKs and AR 15s,” Stevie Guitar said.
While Jared and Petrus hadn’t exactly named Ty, they had mentioned the “guy who works with trucks” Ty had a crew of five guys under him so it could be any or all of them. He had no doubt that Ty and Omundson were the root of it all. Maybe Jensen should have just let Jared kill them.
“Shit. We got a tracker on it, right? Have Aldis get on figuring out where the fuck it is and get a crew together to take it back.”
“We contacted Aldis as soon as we got word the shipment went AWOL. He said the tracker was either removed or disabled. He can’t find it.”
Jensen breathed out. Fuck. Ty knew the trucks in and out of course he would remove the fucking tracker. Jensen knew one thing, that motherfucker was as good as dead. “How long since the truck’s last location?”
“Two hours since the last checkpoint.”
“Round up anyone from Olsson’s crew and bring them to The Ranch for interrogation. Now!”
Kane and Stevie Guitar gave stiff nods before quickly departing.
Thirty minutes later Jensen’s phone rang with a call from an unknown number. Thinking it could be Ty or the hijacker he took a deep breath before he answered. “Who is this?” Jensen growled.
“Hey,” a cheery voice answered, he couldn’t place it but it is familiar. “So, do you know where this truck is supposed to be going? This is Jared Padalecki, by the way.”
An icy dart of betrayal pierced Jensen’s heart. Jared? Jared’s the hijacker? Jensen had sensed cunning in him but hadn’t thought he would do something like this. Had he and Petrus tried to implicate Ty only to throw Jensen off their scent?
“Jared, what the fuck are you doing? What’s going on? Did you hijack the truck?”
“Um…kinda?” Jared said sounding sheepish. “Does it count if we hijacked it from the hijackers?”
“What?” Jensen was totally lost.
A moment later Kane barreled into his room again. “Jensen, Aldis says the tracker is online again. The truck is on 75 heading north.”
Jensen held out a palm for him to shut up. “Jared, explain what is going on?” Kane’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“Petey and I heard Grey Beard talking to some other guys about taking a truck. We took it back. So where are we supposed to be going?”
“Are you driving the truck?”
“Hell, no. There’s a lot of buttons and knobs up here. I don’t know what the fuck they do. But Petey is handling it okay.” He sounded so young and exceedingly proud of himself.
“What are you telling me, Jared? That you two killed Ty and his guys and took back the truck?”
“Yep. It was easy. He wasn’t too bright.”
Jensen dragged a hand down his face. “And the shipment is intact?”
“Seems to be. Six crates. Three with AK-47’s and three with AR-9’s.”
“Jensen,” Stevie Guitar rushed in, long blond hair awry. Jensen threw him a glare to silence him.
“You and Petrus are to deliver that load to the buyer, alright?” Jensen rattled off the rendezvous point for the exchange. “Tell them I’m knocking fifteen grand off their purchase price because of lateness and assure them it will never happen again. Then get your asses to the compound, understand? I want a full goddamned report on everything.”
“Sir, yes, Sir,” Jared said sounding positively chipper.
Jensen hung up, both pissed and impressed two guys were able to formulate and execute a plan to thwart a hijacking on little notice. He turned to Stevie Guitar. “What?” He snapped.
“A couple of my guys found the bodies of Ty Olsson, Tim Omundson, Seb the Frenchman, and Robbie Benedict. Seb and Robbie’s necks were broken but Ty and Tim were shot. The word TRAITOR was carved across their foreheads. Jensen, what the hell is going on?”
Traitor, eh? Jensen thought with a certain amount of satisfaction. It seemed his assessment of Jared and Petrus being extremely intelligent and loyal was spot on. “Nothing,” he answered. “There was a little hiccup but it’s been sorted out. Have your guys get rid of those bodies. Now, both of you get the fuck out of my room.”
In his pit, Jensen sighs, shakes his head. Fucking Jared. Only his man would think retaking a hijacked shipment of high-powered weapons was a grand romantic gesture. It wouldn’t be the last time Jared made such an overture.
Author: Rose_the_Hat
Pairing: Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 29,000
Summary: In which Jensen is a powerful mob boss and Jared is his Enforcer…and so much more.
Notes: This is the product of reading too many M/M mafia romances and listening to too much Type O Negative. Apologies in advance for all the Type O references and for putting the late great Peter Steele in this but I couldn’t resist.
Beta’d by
jdl711 – Blood & Fire
It only takes seconds after emerging from unconsciousness for Jensen Ackles to realize he is in dire trouble. The fact that his lover for the past fifteen years, Jared Padalecki, is not next to him tells him this.
His head is pounding as if a cannon is being fired inside his skull. His mouth might as well be stuffed with cotton and his throat feels swollen. He takes a quick personal inventory. He’s obviously been knocked out, drugged, is his best guess going by the hangover-like symptoms he’s experiencing. Jensen does not partake of illicit drugs nor drink to excess. His next realization is that he is naked. If Jared were next to him this wouldn’t be an issue. He’s not in a bed. The rough surface under his cheek informs him he’s on some kind of concrete surface.
What the fuck is going on? Where am I?
He breathes in and smells dank and wet though the surface he is on feels dry.
Underground somewhere, he surmises. A basement?
He lies as he is, lax and keeping his breathing even, listening. There seems to be no ambient sound.
Soundproofing? Insulation?
He slowly opens his eyes. Impenetrable blackness greets him. His heart, which had been starting to slip into a more easy rhythm, ratchets back up. He can’t see.
Have I been blinded?
He presses his fingertips to his eyes feeling for damage, but feels only his lashes, eyelids, and the shape of his intact eyeballs beneath them.
However bad he had thought his situation was, he was beginning to understand it was worse. How much worse, he cannot guess. Gears click and whirr in his mind, putting it together. He’s been kidnapped and is being held somewhere.
Who could be responsible for this? The Italians? Jensen dismisses the idea. Italians have a way of doing things, steeped in tradition from the Old country. This definitely isn’t that. Apart from that, his Organization and the Italians have an easy peace between them going back decades. They don’t infringe on each other’s territory. They give respect and receive it in return.
Some rogue mobster wannabe then? If this is the work of an amateur or a rogue that makes shit hard to predict.
What’s the last thing I remember?
He searches his mind for what he remembers before he woke up wherever the hell he is.
Jared and I were on a date.
They had been chowing down on some good barbecue at a little joint that launders money for the Organization. Then Jensen had said he wanted to hear some Bob Seger. Jared got up to feed the juke some coins and Jensen went to piss. Night Moves had started to play as he went into the Mens.
Then… He can’t recall anything after shaking off and tucking away his cock.
Whoever took him was lying in wait in that bathroom. Waiting for the one time Jensen would be alone. Well, Jared might have come in with him for a quick handjob or blowjob but he hadn’t.
Or had he? Is it possible Jared is responsible for this? No. No goddamn way. Jensen is disgusted with himself for even allowing that thought to enter his mind. There is no one else on this whole godforsaken plant he trusts more than Jared Padalecki.
Whoever had him knew his movements and routines. They knew that he went out to dinner, his most trusted Enforcer in tow, a couple of times a month, usually to an upscale restaurant where abducting him would have been harder. They had waited patiently for Jensen to go to a more casual restaurant before they struck.
While Jensen was a public figure—a multi-millionaire philanthropist as well as an oil and tech mogul, and it was whispered in certain circles that he was the leader of an organized crime syndicate— this could hardly be the work of a stalker.
Eliminating the Italians and a stalker, that would leave someone in his own Organization. Who? Who would have the audacity the fucking balls to fucking do this? Not only to do it, but the sheer hubris to think they will get away with it?
Anger pulses through him. He’s naked, blind, trapped in a pit, and fucking helpless. He wants to rail and scream curses at his unseen enemy, but he can’t. Helpless he might be, but he will not show weakness. He has to remain in control of himself. It had been one of the first lessons he had learned.
Jensen was sixteen when his father first called him into his office. He pushed the solid oak door open and stepped across the threshold. His father’s blond hair, not as pure gold as Jensen’s own, was turning to a fashionable iron grey and was pushed back from his forehead. Square of jaw and with a forbidding manner, “Iron” Alan Ackles sat behind his large and imposing walnut desk. Jensen took in his father and wondered if he would ever be like that. He always felt clumsy these days and very—not stupid, because his grades were always aces—but ignorant. There was so much he didn’t know, but he wanted to learn.
“Yes, sir?” Jensen said, closing the door behind him.
His father didn’t immediately say anything. Rather, he examined Jensen, seeming to x-ray him. Jensen felt very lacking. While his last growth spurt had brought him to six feet in height, he was scrawny, delicate even. He wasn’t really popular at school, but people didn’t step to him. Even the bullies didn’t want to mess with the son of Alan Ackles.
“How are you doing, son?”
Jensen shrugged. “I’m good, Dad.”
Another lengthy pause. Jensen stood still. He couldn’t fidget or show any kind of weakness. He was being tested. He knew what this was about, had been looking forward to it more than getting his license or a car.
“You know what we do. You’re my only son. My heir. It’s only right you take over after I’m gone. Or decide to retire. But to do that, you need to learn. You think you’re ready?”
Jensen’s heart gave a joyous leap but he kept his face blank. He has spent years watching his father, how he is always calm and in control, even when it felt as if the world was coming down. It’s hard for Jensen to emulate that while in the throes of puberty, but he was determined to show his father that he can. He inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”
So Jensen’s education in organized crime began. His father started him at the bottom of the totem. That was how Alan had learned and felt Jensen couldn’t run the business without knowing all aspects of it. For the rest of his high school career it was known that if you wanted some really good shit for a party you went to Jensen Ackles. His goods were pricey but always primo and because of that he cultivated a nice customer base.
In college it was more of the same. His father added collecting from bookies and pimps to his list of duties and occasionally roughing up those that didn’t pay on time. While Jensen was still lithe he had begun to fill out, he had grown another inch in height and his chest and shoulders were increasingly broad. Jensen also amassed a small, but loyal, group of friends. He dubbed them his Inner Circle and brought them into the Organization. Steve Carlson, nicknamed Stevie Guitar. He had flunked out of UTD because he cared more about playing his music than being a draftsman. Tom Welling was a tall handsome man with wavy black hair and intense blue eyes, thus earning him the nickname Tommy Blue. Jason Manns, nicknamed Lazy Jase because of his easygoing laid back manner. Rounding out the group was Christian Short. He was indeed lacking in height and resented the fuck out of it. He called himself Chris Cain because he liked to raise Cain; he was a contrary bastard, so he spelled it K-A-N-E. It had been Kane who had inadvertently given Jensen a nickname of his own: Pretty Jenny. Kane had said it flippantly, but like ink in water once spilled it could never be called back. Jensen knocked out three of Kane’s teeth and dislocated his jaw for it. Because they were friends, Jensen paid for Kane’s dental work. Kane never used the name again, nor did anyone in Jensen’s Inner Circle, but, still the name spread and, worse, it stuck. Jensen never did forgive Kane for that.
“Pretty” though he may be, Jensen wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He beat the shit out of those he had to; he helped clean-up crews dispose of bodies, and assisted in interrogations. The first time he killed he was nineteen. He had been making the rounds, collecting from the prostitution rings and escort services. But over the course of four months Jensen began to realize that the numbers didn’t add up. A little digging and some interrogation later revealed the madam of the escort service was skimming from the take. She tried to finesse and cajole him, but Jensen could not be fooled. He shot her twice, with a silencer on his .38, and took the missing money. He thought he would feel more guilt about taking a life. But he didn’t. He’d done what he had to. She was taking what belonged to him and his Organization and had to be eliminated. Alan had allowed Jensen to install a new madam in the house and oversee the prostitution rackets. It was his first real promotion and he was damn proud.
The year before Jensen was set to graduate UTD Alan called him into his office again. Once again Jensen knew what it was about, only this time he was not eager for the conversation. Between his sophomore and junior year Jensen met a man named Sterling Brown and fell ass over tea kettle in love with him. While he had had crushes and cases of puppy love, he had never before been In Love. He was not sure how his father would feel about having a gay son and eventually leaving his Organization to that gay son. Jensen knew if he had to choose between Sterling and the Organization, he would choose the Organization though doing do would break his heart.
“Come in, son,” Alan responded to Jensen’s knock.
Jensen was twenty-one but he always felt like that trembling boy of sixteen whenever he entered his father’s inner sanctum.
“Hey, Dad.”
Alan stood and Jensen took his father’s measure, noticing how the grey had overtaken the blond of his hair and how heavily lined his face had become. Alan was getting old and it scared Jensen.
His father clapped him on the shoulder before pulling him into a hug. It surprised Jensen, given what he knew this conversation must be about. “Been too long,” Alan said.
Jensen returned his father’s embrace, feeling his heart clench. He has been so caught up in managing his parts of the business, keeping up with his schooling, hanging out with friends, and being with Sterling that time for his father has fallen by the wayside. He felt vaguely ashamed. “Yeah. It has.”
Alan released Jensen and returned to his customary place behind his desk. He folded his hands together and pinned Jensen with a stern but sympathetic gaze. “Don’t feel too badly, Jensen. You’re a young man, leading your own life. It’s the way of things.”
Hearing his father say that eased some of the guilt, but he was still filled with tension for what he knew was coming, the real reason for his summoning. Sterling had offered to come with Jensen for support but Jensen refused.
“I want to talk to you about the young man you’re involved with.”
Jensen swallowed and tried to keep his poker face firmly in place. Stay in control, he chided himself. He had to stay in control. That lesson had been drilled into him from the time he was sixteen. His stomach was twisting in on itself. He felt nervous sweat starting to break out in his pits. He hadn’t made a secret of his sexuality but he wasn’t waving a rainbow flag either. Who he loved and fucked was his business and Jensen was raised to keep his business to himself. Keep it under control.
“I don’t care about you being a homosexual, son.”
Jensen relaxed a fraction. He knew there was a ‘but’ coming.
“But others will,” Alan added, gravely. “And I don’t mean the world at large. I mean others in our business. It has a deep culture, Jensen, as I’m sure you’re aware. Very masculine. Very macho. While I don’t care, and I’m sure your circle of friends don’t care, others we do business with and rivals will. They will try to use it against you, say you are weak, or less than because you prefer gentlemen instead of ladies. They will try to undermine you, chip away at your authority, and influence.”
“You saying I should beard?” Alan looked puzzled so Jensen explained. “A shield. A woman to date, and be seen with.”
Alan waved a dismissive hand. “I’m saying no such thing. You shouldn’t be anything other than what you are. I’m just telling you to be aware. Also know that any man you become involved with also becomes involved in our world. You unintentionally put a target on them. Others may try to use them to get to you, or me. You know that is why your mother prefers to live abroad. Make sure the man you choose understands what he’s getting involved in.”
As it turned out Sterling didn’t know and when he did wanted no part of Jensen. So, Jensen suffered his first true heartbreak. He would make sure the next man he became involved with knew the score.
Jensen is pulled back from his early days to his current predicament by bright light flooding down from directly above him. He slams his eyes shut for a moment before forcing them back open. He needs any information about where he is and who has him. He isn’t going to get it with his eyes closed. He raises a hand in an attempt to block out some of the light while his eyes adjust. Through half-closed eyes Jensen takes in his surroundings. He’s in some kind of cement pit, probably twelve or fifteen feet deep, and the walls are smooth, meaning it’s too high for him to jump and attempt to scratch and claw his way out. Not that it would matter. The next thing Jensen notices is a heavy barred trapdoor across the opening of his subterranean cell.
The hinges of the trapdoor creak and all Jensen can make out is a hulking outline of a man before an empty five gallon paint bucket is tossed down to him. It glances off Jensen’s forehead before hitting the floor. The trapdoor is slammed shut and there is the heavy click of a lock before the light vanishes, leaving Jensen once more in total darkness.
Jensen knows enough about prison—not from personal experience, the Organization’s attorney, Julian Richings, is far too skilled to have ever allowed him to get locked up—to know what the purpose of the bucket is. A bathroom. Meaning whoever has him plans on keeping him for a while. Jensen sits back against the wall of the pit, legs stretched out and crossing his feet at the ankles. It’s a waiting game. That’s okay. He can wait. Eventually his captor will show himself—or herself, Jensen supposes.
Or….
In the dark, an almost sinister smile splits Jensen’s lips. Or Jared finds me. Crossing his arms across his broad chest, Jensen’s grin widens. Whoever has him will rue the day they planned this foolish enterprise. Jensen can only distantly imagine what unholy vengeance Jared will rain down on them. He’s almost eager for it, not only because it means he’ll be free, but because Jared doing his thing is really fucking hot.
Almost from the very beginning it seems Jared has always been there for him. Jared will come, Jensen reflects, and he won’t come alone.
Alan died of a heart attack when Jensen was twenty-four. By that time he had handed over most of the reigns of his business’, both legal and illegal, to Jensen. While he gained a reputation as a shrewd businessman, reserved and stoic, he was still haunted by that Pretty Jenny nickname and at times found it hard to be taken seriously. His frame had filled out in muscle but his face was still too feminine; wide eyes too guileless and his full mouth garnered all the wrong attention.
He cultivated a favorable public image with his many philanthropic enterprises. Jensen founded the Ackles Art Endowment, which pretty much kept the local PBS stations on the air, the Ackles Scholarship Foundation, which awarded full academic scholarships to teens from low income areas, and The Ackles Disaster Relief Grant, which gave funds to those who were affected by the tornadoes that often devastated Texas. As much as Jensen liked the good PR, those endeavors were great tax write offs. He invested in a few start-up tech companies that went on to yield healthy profits. Jensen felt that the many and diverse legitimate businesses provided a better screen for their illegal activities. He had just been named Dallas’ Most Eligible Bachelor for the first time when he met the love of his life, Jared Padalecki.
Jensen had been hearing his guys talk about a couple of guys nicknamed Big ‘n Little for a couple of months now. First time he had heard them mentioned had been from Kane and his East side crew. Big ‘n Little had been working on the loading dock at Transportation Solutions, one of Jensen’s legitimate businesses that he used for illegal purposes, or shaking down people that owed money. Since Big ‘n Little joined Kane’s crew the payments poured in at a steady pace and usually in full. That made Jensen very happy so when Big ‘n Little requested a face-to-face with him he was more than amenable.
As the two men entered his office it was obvious the nicknames Big ‘n Little were something of a joke. Both men were very tall. Big stood a towering six foot seven inches tall; Little probably topping out at six foot four. Big’s jet black hair hung way past his massive shoulders. His heavy dark brows framed brooding grey-green eyes. He was dressed simply in black jeans and faded olive green t-shirt. Jensen estimated his age to be somewhere around his late twenties or very early thirties.
Jensen’s gaze moved from Big to his companion, Little. He was similarly dressed in loose fitting ripped and faded jeans and white t-shirt. He appeared several years younger than the other man, going by his boyish features. When Jensen met his eyes an electric charge zipped through him followed by a rush of heat and desire he hadn’t ever felt before. He guessed Little felt it as well judging by the slight uptick of brow and the tiniest hint of a smirk.
Putting his best poker face firmly in place Jensen rose from behind his desk to greet his visitors. “Gentlemen. What are your names? Or what do you want me to call you?”
Little spoke first in a smooth baritone. “I’m Jay,” he indicated himself. Then, he hooked a thumb over to Big. “He’s Petey.”
“Petrus Ratajczyk and Jared Padalecki, sir,” Big, or rather Petrus said in a basso voice so low it was practically felt more than heard.
“Those names are a mouthful.”
Jared’s cat-like eyes flashed predatory for an instant. “They’re Polish descent.”
“A little Russian, too, in my case,” Petrus added with a shrug. Jensen detected a northern accent of some kind but he couldn’t place it.
Jensen shook each man’s hand, that frisson of desire pulsed through him again when he took Jared’s. “Have a seat and tell me why you wanted to meet with me.” He motioned toward the chairs in front of his desk. The two men waited until Jensen was seated before sitting themselves. Respectful. Jensen liked that very much. “I’ll assume it must be highly confidential or you would have gone to Kane with it.”
Both men’s faces were stony and serious now that they were getting down to business. “Yes, sir. It ain’t that we don’t trust Kane, but he always has a lotta eyes and eaahs around ‘im,” Petrus said speaking with a heavy New York accent.
“It’s them we don’t trust,” Jared chimed in. “Most of the guys don’t pay attention to Petey and me. They think we’re all muscle and no brains so we hear things. Not good things.”
Jensen’s interest was instantly piqued. “And those things would be?” He prompted.
The two men exchanged glances, obviously silently communicating. Jensen wondered what the relationship was between them. They were at complete ease with each other in a way that spoke of years of friendship. More than friends? Jensen wondered and a stab of jealousy pierced him.
“On the surface it sounds like the usual shit-talk anybody does about their boss,” Jared began. Where Petrus had a New York accent Jared’s was pure Texas. “They call you pretty or,” his eyes darted around and there was a subtle bloom of color in his cheeks.
“They say you’re a fag,” Petrus said blithely. “That you may act like your fatha but you ain’t nuthin’ like ‘im.”
Jensen clenched his jaw so hard he thought he heard a back tooth crack. It’s not being called a gay slur that bothered him; it’s the intimation that he is not the man his father was because of Jensen’s looks and sexuality.
Jared continued. “They say you care too much about your do-gooder public image to really keep an eye on everything,” He paused for a second before lowering the boom. “They’re talking about going into business for themselves.”
Jensen swallowed down the white-hot anger. No, he can’t have eyes everywhere which is why his closest most loyal friends are in places of high power. Anything that happens under them will get back to Jensen and justice will be swiftly meted out.
Jensen leaned back in his chair, resting his chin between his thumb and forefinger. He observed each man more carefully, pondering what Jared said about how others in his Organization perceive them. There was indeed a lot more to these two than just size, Jensen thought. Jensen surmised people see Petrus’ size, heard his accent, and assumed him to be a stereotypical dumb palooka. To Jensen he seemed straightforward and pensive. People might look at Jared and see an immature boy, but Jensen sees eyes that are too old for such a young face. He saw cleverness and cunning as well. Alan taught Jensen to see beyond the surface and under the surface of these two he saw hungry, intelligent, loyal men.
“Why come to me with this?” He finally asked. “You’re new to the Organization. Why not throw in with these talkers? Try to get while the gettin’s good?”
Jared shrugged a shoulder. “Kane talks about you; says you like loyalty. Petey n’ me have had it rough for a lotta years. I figure we get in good with you we’ll have it a lot better.”
Jensen nodded. Honesty, a quality he appreciates. A quality usually found in his Inner Circle men. Could he be looking at two new members? “Do you know the names of any of the men doing the talking?”
“We’re still kinda new so we ain’t too good on names,” Petrus said. “But a couple of the guys deal with the trucks.”
“Ty Olsson?” Jensen inquired, sitting up. “Forty-ish? Not as tall as me? Not too heavy but not thin? Short brown hair? Scruff? He’d be the head of the trucking operations,” Jensen supplied.
“That sounds like him,” Jared nodded.
“Do you know who his accomplice is?” Jensen asked.
“Not by name,” Petrus said. “He’s older. Got alotta wavy haiah with a thick beahd,” Petrus added. “Going kinda grey.”
“Tim Omundson.” He was head of the gun running operations and since the trucks were used to run the guns, naturally, they would need to work together.
“That guy with the fuckin’ ugly crescent moon face,” Jared said breaking into Jensen’s thoughts.
“Ritchie the Chin.” Richard Speight Jr. who worked overseeing the chop shops.
“Those fences who deal with the pawnshops are running their mouths, too.”
“Freddy Lehne and Mark Pellegrino. That all of them?” Jensen asked. Shit. He had five potential traitors high up in his Organization. Ty and Tim had started working under Alan when Jensen was fifteen. Maybe it should surprise Jensen that men who followed his father don’t seem as willing to follow him.
“Yeah. What do you want us to do? Kill ‘em?” Jared asked and Jensen detected an eager light in the young man’s eyes.
Petrus rolled his eyes at Jared’s comment, and hit him with the toe of one heavy-looking boot.
Jensen revised his opinion of the younger man. Clever and sly, but maybe a little dangerous. That made for one hell of a combination. If Jensen could earn his loyalty he had no doubt he’d have a soldier who’d go to the ends of the earth for him. Given what they just told him he needed men like that.
“No,” Jensen answered. “Keep doing what you’ve been doing: watching and listening. However, if the talk becomes more than idle bullshit I want you to come to me.” Jensen grabbed a slip of paper and wrote down his private phone number. He stood and pulled out his money clip. He peeled off five one-hundred dollar bills for each man, tucking his phone number into the bills he intended for Jared. He came from behind his desk, and extended a hand to Petrus.
“Will do, sir,” Petrus said, shaking Jensen’s hand and taking the folded bills, briefly looking at them, before tucking them into his jeans pocket.
“Thanks for seeing us, Boss Man,” Jared said shaking Jensen’s hand. If he noticed the slip of paper he gave nothing away.
Two and a half weeks later, Jensen was in the sitting room of his bedroom, seated in a heavy wingback chair, enjoying a late breakfast of buttery croissants, crispy bacon, and black coffee. He’d been staring at the same article in the Wall Street Journal for the last half hour, not really taking in anything. His mind kept returning to Jared Padalecki, as it had been doing since Jensen met the man. He hadn’t expected him to call the night he gave Jared the phone number but he had expected him to call soon after. Jensen felt like a preteen girl waiting for her crush to call; he felt stupid. Maybe he had misjudged the young man’s interest. Jensen knew he’s a good-looking dude, maybe that was as far as Jared’s interest in him went. He sighed, folded his copy of the Wall Street Journal and tossed it down on the table beside him, and gazed out the wide bay window at the flowers and fountains in the back garden.
Without knocking Kane and Stevie Guitar charged in. Jensen was instantly alert, no one came into his personal quarters without permission and certainly not without knocking. He pushed to his feet, noting the tense set of each man’s face.
“We got a problem, Jensen,” Kane said. Jensen’s gut clenched. Jared. He has no idea why his first thought was of Jared but it was. Maybe the reason Jared hasn’t called was that Ty and his co-conspirators found out about Jared and Petrus informing on them. Maybe Ty got rid of them.
“What?”
“There was an 18-wheeler of ours hijacked earlier today. It was carrying a load of AKs and AR 15s,” Stevie Guitar said.
While Jared and Petrus hadn’t exactly named Ty, they had mentioned the “guy who works with trucks” Ty had a crew of five guys under him so it could be any or all of them. He had no doubt that Ty and Omundson were the root of it all. Maybe Jensen should have just let Jared kill them.
“Shit. We got a tracker on it, right? Have Aldis get on figuring out where the fuck it is and get a crew together to take it back.”
“We contacted Aldis as soon as we got word the shipment went AWOL. He said the tracker was either removed or disabled. He can’t find it.”
Jensen breathed out. Fuck. Ty knew the trucks in and out of course he would remove the fucking tracker. Jensen knew one thing, that motherfucker was as good as dead. “How long since the truck’s last location?”
“Two hours since the last checkpoint.”
“Round up anyone from Olsson’s crew and bring them to The Ranch for interrogation. Now!”
Kane and Stevie Guitar gave stiff nods before quickly departing.
Thirty minutes later Jensen’s phone rang with a call from an unknown number. Thinking it could be Ty or the hijacker he took a deep breath before he answered. “Who is this?” Jensen growled.
“Hey,” a cheery voice answered, he couldn’t place it but it is familiar. “So, do you know where this truck is supposed to be going? This is Jared Padalecki, by the way.”
An icy dart of betrayal pierced Jensen’s heart. Jared? Jared’s the hijacker? Jensen had sensed cunning in him but hadn’t thought he would do something like this. Had he and Petrus tried to implicate Ty only to throw Jensen off their scent?
“Jared, what the fuck are you doing? What’s going on? Did you hijack the truck?”
“Um…kinda?” Jared said sounding sheepish. “Does it count if we hijacked it from the hijackers?”
“What?” Jensen was totally lost.
A moment later Kane barreled into his room again. “Jensen, Aldis says the tracker is online again. The truck is on 75 heading north.”
Jensen held out a palm for him to shut up. “Jared, explain what is going on?” Kane’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“Petey and I heard Grey Beard talking to some other guys about taking a truck. We took it back. So where are we supposed to be going?”
“Are you driving the truck?”
“Hell, no. There’s a lot of buttons and knobs up here. I don’t know what the fuck they do. But Petey is handling it okay.” He sounded so young and exceedingly proud of himself.
“What are you telling me, Jared? That you two killed Ty and his guys and took back the truck?”
“Yep. It was easy. He wasn’t too bright.”
Jensen dragged a hand down his face. “And the shipment is intact?”
“Seems to be. Six crates. Three with AK-47’s and three with AR-9’s.”
“Jensen,” Stevie Guitar rushed in, long blond hair awry. Jensen threw him a glare to silence him.
“You and Petrus are to deliver that load to the buyer, alright?” Jensen rattled off the rendezvous point for the exchange. “Tell them I’m knocking fifteen grand off their purchase price because of lateness and assure them it will never happen again. Then get your asses to the compound, understand? I want a full goddamned report on everything.”
“Sir, yes, Sir,” Jared said sounding positively chipper.
Jensen hung up, both pissed and impressed two guys were able to formulate and execute a plan to thwart a hijacking on little notice. He turned to Stevie Guitar. “What?” He snapped.
“A couple of my guys found the bodies of Ty Olsson, Tim Omundson, Seb the Frenchman, and Robbie Benedict. Seb and Robbie’s necks were broken but Ty and Tim were shot. The word TRAITOR was carved across their foreheads. Jensen, what the hell is going on?”
Traitor, eh? Jensen thought with a certain amount of satisfaction. It seemed his assessment of Jared and Petrus being extremely intelligent and loyal was spot on. “Nothing,” he answered. “There was a little hiccup but it’s been sorted out. Have your guys get rid of those bodies. Now, both of you get the fuck out of my room.”
In his pit, Jensen sighs, shakes his head. Fucking Jared. Only his man would think retaking a hijacked shipment of high-powered weapons was a grand romantic gesture. It wouldn’t be the last time Jared made such an overture.
