I pivot, shoving Briggs behind the rusted hulk of an old boxcar, half-buried in weeds. He slumps beside me. His breathing’s ragged, half from the beating, half from whatever they gave him to keep him compliant. I check the corner before giving him a second to breathe.
A bullet ricochets off the siding with a sharp pang.
“You good?” I ask.
“Define good,” he mutters, bloody spit trailing down his chin.
Good enough.
I draw my gun firing a warning shot. The echo cracks loud enough to buy us half a second. We dart from the temporary cover, zigzagging through stacks of scrap and pallets. I count the shots behind us. One. Two. Three.
We’re hugging the warehouse’s edge when a figure rounds the corner, something gleaming in his hand. I take two quick steps forward and I drop him with a jab to the throat and a boot to the knee. He goes down fast, wheezing. His weapon clatters useless to the gravel. I pick up the pistol, rack the slide and shove it into my waistband.
I haul Briggs the last stretch toward the corrugated fence ahead, a section bowed where someone rammed it once and never fixed it. I push Briggs through first, following with a grunt, my jacket snagging on the wire before I rip it free.
The voices grow distant and the gunshots fade as we stagger down the embankment toward the side street where I parked. As soon as we reach my car, I shove the passenger door open and help Briggs in. He groans but manages to pull the seatbelt across as I shut the door. His head slumps against the glass. His breath rattles, but thank God he’s alive.
Before climbing in myself, I take one last look back. Either we lost them or they gave up. Either way, I’m not wasting time to find out.
I slide behind the wheel, gripping the leather until it creaks. I slam the car into gear, tires spitting dust. The Charger roars down the cracked road that runs along the dead tracks. My pulse matches the growl.
The tires squeal as I burn out onto the main drag and vanish into traffic.
Briggs leans his head back against the seat, eyes half-lidded. “We got it?”
I tap my pocket. “Yeah. We got it.”
I take the long way through town, sticking to the quieter streets where the asphalt’s cracked and the only light comes from corner stores and dying streetlamps.
“What’s this showcase about?” I ask Briggs.
He lifts his head, his voice ragged. “It’s a high-roller event by invite only. Fights, drugs, girls on the auction block. Buyers coming in from everywhere. Serrano’s planning his biggest payday yet.”
That’s when it clicks. Every move Serrano has made was leading to this.
There’s a line I don’t cross. I’ve bent it, sure. I lived so close to the edge it’s damn near etched into my bones. But no trafficking. No coercion. No kids. Men who cross that line deserve what they get. And Serrano’s days are numbered.
“When’s this showcase?”
“Saturday.” Briggs tilts his head, trying to focus. “What’s your move?”
I roll the options around in my head, but no matter how many times I spin it, it lands the same. I hate it. Needing anyone has always been the fastest way to get gutted. But this… this isn’t something I can take on alone.
I drag in a breath, let it out slow.
“I take it to the Royal Harlots.” My jaw tightens. “They’ve got reach in this city I don’t, and this war’s bigger than me.”
Briggs tilts his head, eyes narrowing, trying to find my angle. He looks at me like a man who put his last chip on black and can’t tear his eyes off the wheel.
“Are you sure about this?” he presses.
The words hang heavy between us. I feel the weight of them, the cost. My pride wants to claw them back, but my gut knows better.
I grind my jaw, “No.”
9
KATANA
