“Are you sure?”
He takes a fast breath, “My contact tapped into the street cameras. Black van with no plates was seen grabbing Briggs late last night.This has Serrano written all over it.”
“Fuck.” I hang up without another word.
I stare at the phone like it might have answers I don’t. Like how I can stop this.
Serrano is declaring war. Not the kind with gloves and rounds. The kind that leaves a body count.
I laugh, bitter and sharp, but it catches in my throat. Because maybe I can’t fight this alone.
The thought burns like acid in my gut. I stand, pacing. After a long beat, I grab my burner phone, the one I don’t use unless it’s urgent and send a message to the one person who might have more eyes on this city than I do.
Need Serrano’s location. Now.
I don’t sign it. They’ll know who it’s from.
Then I grab a bottle from the cabinet, and drop back onto the couch. I take a swig. The burn hits hard, but not hard enough.
The response comes minutes later, my burner screen glowing cold blue.
Message received. Will dig. You owe me. -Sable
Yeah. I fucking do.
I stare out the window, where the city lights flicker through the glass, and I wonder how much longer I can hold this together. How many more fighters I’ll lose? How many more girls will disappear from this city?
Marc’s voice whispers in the back of my mind.
Don’t let it be for nothing.
I won’t, brother.
Even if I have to fight this whole fucking city to stop it.
I don’t sleep. I just pace the apartment until the walls start to close in.
The city’s a fucking ghost town when I hit the streets again. It’s past three a.m., and the only thing awake out here is the shit that doesn’t want to be seen. The streetlamps don’t quite chase the dark off the edges. I walk like I’ve got somewhere to be, but the truth is, I don’t. Not really.
My boots hit the pavement, every step heavier than the last.
I can’t get Briggs' face out of my head. The kid’s only twenty-three. Left hook like a sledgehammer. He’d just signed on for two more fights. Talked about saving up to move out of his shitty studio apartment. Now he’s probably rotting in some warehouse pumped full of steroids or meth and made to fight for his life instead of a paycheck.
That’s the Serrano model. Break them down, rebuild them as killers or end up corpses. I should know.
I light a cigarette with hands that won’t stop shaking and lean against a rusted lamppost. The smoke burns in my throat. I don’t even like the taste anymore. I just need the fire.
I toss the cigarette, sparks spitting across the sidewalk, and pull my phone out again. No missed calls. No texts. No answers.
I’m alone in this.
After Mikey’s betrayal I can’t even trust the loyalty of my crew. Brick’s rock-solid. But I see the fear growing in the others eyes, the second thoughts, the doubt. It creeps in through the seams.
And now? Now I’ve got the Royal Harlots sniffing around like I’m the big bad wolf.
Katana.
Fucking hell.
