Page 67

The van door slides open, and the night air slams into me like a cold fist, it’s an assault of garbage, rain-soaked concrete, and raw danger. I’m out, boots hitting pavement, silent as a ghost, body trained on the alley’s darkness.

We’re a fucking unit with Matthew flanking me, and the prospects in sync, moving like shadows. Greyson’s van hangs back, ready to roll.

The alley’s a graveyard, lightless and choked with the stench of decay. Graffiti snarls from the walls, trash spilling like guts from split bags, and the air’s thick with something rotten, a warning or a promise.

We hit the back fence, a rusted skeleton with a gate barely hanging on. I signal Matthew, fingers cutting through the dark, and he slides off to cover the front. Prospects take the gate, weapons ready, eyes hard.

I break through first.

The yard’s a goddamn wasteland, nothing but dead grass and memories of better days. A busted grill, a mangled lawn chair, a kiddie slide sagging in the weeds. A junk pile with no cover. The back door is in my sights, a sickly yellow bulb washing it in piss-colored light.

Four strides and I’m there, back to the wall, heart hammering like a fucking war drum. No more shaking, just a razor-sharp focus on what needs to be done.

Voices seep through the walls—muffled conversation, laughter—oblivious to the storm at their door. Three voices. The kitchen window’s cracked, the smell of stale smoke and greasy food creeping out like a dying breath.

It’s time to do this.

I pull out my weapon—not a gun, not tonight. This needs to be personal. Six inches of cold steel, a combat knife that feels like it was made for this. The blade catches the dim light from the kitchen window, and there’s my reflection: dark eyes, set jaw, a man ready to cross a line he’s drawn a hundred times before.

The moment snaps, and I’m moving.

The back door’s a joke, unlocked and begging for trouble. The handle turns, and the hinges let out a high, thin squeal. The kitchen yawns open, small, cluttered, the fluorescent glare making everything look shitty and surreal. Dishes piled high, empty bottles, and a pizza box that’s seen better days.

Two assholes at the table. One’s young, snake ink coiling up his arm. The other, older and packing more gut than smarts. They’re playing poker, completely lost in their cards.

A third voice drifts from the living room. I spy a couch, boots up on the ottoman, TV casting a blue glow.

I’m on them.

Snake Arm clocks me crossing the threshold, eyes bugging out, mouth starting to form a word that doesn’t stand a chance. My hand is around his throat before he can even think about screaming, and I slam him into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. His head bounces, eyes roll back, lights out.

Gut’s reaching for something—a piece, maybe a blade—but fuck it. My fist finds his jaw with a crunch that echoes. He drops, all his weight gone at once, and hits the linoleum so hard the dishes shiver in the sink.

The third guy hears the commotion. Couch creaks, boots hit the floor, and I can practically taste his panic. I’m through the doorway, knife ready, and there he is, tall, bald, eyes dead as the sea and just as cold.

He’s fast, Glock in hand, swinging up toward me. But I’m quicker. I twist his wrist, and the gun goes off, firing into the ceiling. Plaster rains down, the sound exploding around us like a grenade.

He scraps like he means it—trained, maybe military or just mean enough to not give a shit. His free hand swings, catching my temple, sending the world spinning for a hot second. But I’ve taken worse—much worse.

My knife kisses his ribs, not deep enough to kill, just enough to make him sing. And sing he does, a raw scream that crawls through the house and out into the night. I twist the blade, and his voice breaks, riding a wave of agony.

“Where’s Caldwell?” I growl, my voice a lethal whisper in his ear.

“Fuck you⁠—”

I twist harder. Bone grates under the steel, and his scream shatters, blood hot over my fingers, gauze soaked through.

“Where. Is. Caldwell.”

He gasps out the words, each one bleeding him dry. “Rusty Nail… tomorrow… eight o’clock… back room…”

I rip the knife free, and he drops, clutching his side, blood pooling fast. His breaths wet and raspy, but he won’t die, not today. He’ll carry the scar, the memory, the knowledge of what fucking with the wrong people gets you.

Matthew steps in, face stone, gun drawn. He takes it all in: the two knocked out in the kitchen, this sorry bastard bleeding on the floor, me standing there with a knife slick with red.

“Front’s clear,” he says. “No one’s called it in yet, but that shot⁠—”

“We’re done.” I wipe the blade on the couch, clinical, detached, the ritual of a man finishing his business. Blood stains the fabric, and I slide the knife home at my hip.