She stared at him like he’d sprouted horns, but she followed.
They sneaked back along the walkway Ash had entered. Pipes hummed above them, water dripped from rusted joints, and somewhere deeper in the warehouse, another voice shouted something unintelligible. The way ahead twisted between the shadows, flickering with the failing pulse of old security lights.
Then—
“Shit,” Ash hissed, pulling Nora to a halt.
Two guards stood at the bottom of the stairs, blocking the way. Mid-conversation, laughing. One had his weapon propped lazily on his shoulder. The other was lighting a cigarette.
Ash let go of Nora. He surged forward—low, fast, brutal.
The guards barely had time to react. The first took a knee to the gut so hard he folded in half. Ash spun, thrust an elbow into the second one’s jaw, ducked a wild swing, and countered with a snap kick to the knee. Bone crunched. The rifle clattered to the floor. The guard screamed and dropped.
Ash didn’t stop. A quick jab to the throat silenced the first one as he tried to rise. The second went down a moment later,twitching. But the noise had already echoed across the hollow steel.
Footsteps thundered as Nora followed down the stairs. Voices yelled in Japanese. Two more armed men burst onto the floor, rifles raised.
“Duck!” Ash barked, shoving Nora behind a crate as bullets tore into the walls.
He lunged forward in a blur of motion, pure muscle and instinct. The first Yakuza fired at the space he’d occupied a heartbeat before. Ash hit the ground in a roll, came up low, and drove a kick into the man’s stomach. The guard staggered back, snarling, swinging the rifle like a club. Ash caught his wrist, wrenched it hard, and felt the weapon slip loose. He used the momentum to throw the man sideways into a stack of crates. Wood splintered. The guard hit with a choked yelp and didn’t get up.
The second one was already on him. Ash dodged a punch, but not the boot that caught him square in the ribs. Pain exploded white-hot. His vision blurred. He stumbled back, gasping, the world tilting for a second. The guard pressed forward, fist cocked. Ash pivoted through the pain and whipped a roundhouse kick into the man’s temple. The guard’s head snapped sideways. He crumpled without a sound.
Breath ragged, Ash straightened, one hand pressed to his ribs. Nora stared at him wide-eyed and silent.
The guard he smashed into the crates staggered up, knife drawn. Blood streaked his face. “Come on,” he spat, advancing. “Let’s see what you got, pretty boy.”
The blade slashed toward Ash’s throat. He jerked back, the edge whistling past. Close. Too close. He caught the man’s wrist mid-swing, slammed it against a pipe rack, and rammed his fist into the bridge of the guard’s nose. Cartilage crunched. TheYakuza collapsed with a wet groan, blood seeping between his fingers.
Ash forced a grin despite the fire in his ribs. “I charge extra for private shows.” He turned to Nora, chest heaving. “Let’s go.”
Gunfire erupted behind them. Another shout—more guards incoming.
There was no use for stealth anymore. No use for shadows.
Ash grabbed Nora’s hand and bolted. They tore down the corridor, boots hammering concrete, ducking stray bullets as they burst out into the mist-soaked dusk. Light fractured in puddles. The Harley waited where he left it, parked behind the truck.
Ash mounted fast, starting the engine. “Get on!”
Nora didn’t argue. She climbed up behind him, clinging tight.
The engine roared. Gunshots chased them. Sparks flew. But they were already gone, slicing into the twilight, tires hissing across rain-slick asphalt, vanishing into the fog before anyone could follow. Behind them, Blackwater Bay receded and swallowed itself in gloom.
Chapter Twenty
(6:35 p.m.)
The rain had already started by the time they left Ebonridge. A whisper at first; soft drizzles threading down the windshield in crooked lines, tapping out a rhythm with no melody. It built slowly, steady and unhurried, until the wipers had to work for their keep. By the time Rick veered off the highway, the sky had deepened into a colorless bruise, and the downpour had thickened into a steady, curtain-drawn hush.
He pulled into a small lot beside a squat brick diner where a neon sign blinkedGene’s Grill, the letters buzzing like pink fireflies, the glow casting a warm blush across the puddles below. It was the kind of place that hadn’t changed in fifty years: black-and-white floor tiles, sugar dispensers on every table, Formica counters. But it was clean, well-lit, the kind of joint where the jukebox still worked and the waitstaff wore name tags on their uniforms.
Inside, the smell of grilled onions and cheese wrapped around them like a worn blanket. Booths lined the fogged-up window, their red leather faded but intact. A couple of college kids huddled in the far corner over milkshakes, laughing too loud while staring at their phones. At the counter, a trucker in flannel slumped over a mug of steaming coffee.
Frank peeled off his coat with a sigh and slid into a booth by the window. “Man, this weather… I feel it in my goddamn bones,” he muttered, rubbing his shoulder.
Rick hung his fedora on the coat hook and sat across from him, resting his arms on the table. “You’re getting old, buddy.”
“Screw you,” Frank smirked. “Talk to me in a couple of years.”
