4. Chapter 4

"That asshole's trying to muscle in on my territory," Barney snarled over breakfast. They met every Thursday morning at the diner down the road from the shop, a tradition they had started before the shop had even opened, back when they were both high on the thought of belonging somewhere and being something other than (better than) carnies.

"Taras?"

"That punk? Nah. The Irish."

"Phil?" Clint poured more maple syrup on his pancakes.

"Yeah. Man, he thinks he's hot shit. I got a thing or two to tell him."

"Leave off, Barney. The man's trouble, but I don't think he wants your job."

"What the fuck do you know, anyway?"

"He hangs around the shop when I work on his car. We talk a little. Doesn't strike me as a guy with much ambition. He just wants to do his job and go home to fuck his wife."

"Who wouldn't? That girl is smokin'." Barney bounced in his seat like a kid. "A waste to give her to an old dude like that."

Clint put down his silverware. "What the fuck are you up to, Barney?"

Barney looked up at him, his guilty expression gone in a flash but not fast enough.

"Don't. Whatever it is, don't. You know these Russians, Barney. You know Grigory. And we don't know shit about the Irish, not enough for you to take him on."

"I know more than you think I do," Barney growled, returning to his food.

Clint had long ago realized that, perversely, he was the smart one. Barney was not stupid but he was nowhere near as clever as he thought he was. Mostly he was just lucky, but Clint knew that wouldn't last forever. He just hoped that Barney had sense enough not to try Trickshot's game, because if it came down to a choice between Barney and Grigory, only a fool would bet against the house.

"Promise me, Barney. You're my brother, you promise me right now you aren't going to do anything stupid!"

"Geeze, chill out. I promise. No doing anything stupid. Hey, you done with the syrup?"

Clint passed over the jug of syrup as his stomach clinched into knots.