It had been a while since I killed a man. It was time to kill another. And another.
I stood, cracked my neck, and started pacing the length of the room. “Where’s Seneca?” I said.
“Running recon,” Augustine replied. “Supposed to text if he spotted anything unusual.”
I chewed that over. There was nothing unusual anymore. The club was a nest of ex-mil, felons, men who thought in kill ratios and exit routes, but even they were jumpy. I watched the TV, but I watched the door more.
There was a tremor in the air, a subsonic pressure. I felt it before I heard the engine—a police Crown Vic, slow-rolling up the drive. I caught it on the security monitor: two cruisers, lightsoff, but the shape of the light bars still visible. I pointed it out to Augustine. He moved to the monitor and squinted.
“Cops,” he said. “Probably the real ones.”
I nodded, but it wasn’t a question.
He grinned, the way you do when you know the punchline is coming for your face. “You want me to stall them?”
I shook my head. “Let them in. But don’t let them get comfortable.”
He left the war room, body language already shifting to “dumb bouncer” mode—loose shoulders, jaw slack, the thousand-yard stare of a man who wanted you to underestimate him.
I stayed by the monitors. Watched the two detectives step out of the cruiser, badges swinging on lanyards like dog tags. The driver was a tall woman with a linebacker’s build, the passenger a man built for paperwork. Neither looked happy to be here.
Augustine met them at the door, let them through, and led them to the war room without fanfare. I watched them the whole way—tracking posture, eyes, the way the taller one scanned corners before stepping into a room. They were good, or thought they were.
When they entered, I stood, hands flat on the steel table. “You got a warrant?” I said.
The man answered. “Not yet.”
The woman just looked at me, sizing up my height, weight, and threat level. “Seager Culberson?”
I nodded. “Everyone calls me Nitro.”
She didn’t write it down. “We need to ask you about Seraphina Dalton.”
I nodded at the TV, which was still running her face in a loop. “What about her?”
“She’s missing,” the man said. “Last seen with you, two nights ago.”
I let my face go neutral. “Is that a crime?”
“Not yet,” the woman said. “But it’s interesting, given your history.”
I shrugged. “I’ve got a lot of history.”
She didn’t smile. “Where were you between midnight and two a.m. yesterday?”
“In bed,” I said, and let the implied “alone” hang.
The man glanced at his notes. “You’re aware she had security cameras at her house?”
“Everyone in White Rock has security cameras,” I said. “It’s a hobby.”
He nodded. “So you wouldn’t mind coming down to the station and reviewing the tapes with us?”
I flexed my hands. “Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet,” the woman said again.
I let the silence go. Augustine watched from the corner, arms crossed, waiting for me to give the sign. I didn’t. Not yet.
