Airdyle sighed and ran a hand through his sparse, greying hair. “Glenn, honey, you don’t know who you’re messing with,” he said in a low, gruff voice. “They like the broken ones. It’s easier to put someone together how they want and make allowances for cracks, than it is to build something lethal from the ground up.” He sipped his glass of orange juice.
Glenn slouched in her seat and drummed her stubby nails on the table. “You saying I can’t cut it?”
Airdyle sighed, exasperated. “That’s what you took away?” He stood and pulled his shirttail from his jeans, revealing a jagged scar along his taut belly. “What’s this?”
Glenn shrugged. “Said it was an accident.”
Airdyle dropped his shirt and sat. “Brotherhood don’t have accidents, peach. This is early retirement, and they don’t give benefit packages no more. Stay out of it.”
Glenn nodded, but made no promises. She couldn’t lie to her uncle.
