Of a voice whispering in the dark.
I'm always watching.
And somewhere out there, in the cold February night, Virgil is waiting.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bloodhound
Three weeks of waiting, and I'm losing my mind.
Every morning I wake up next to Vanna, feel the baby kick against my palm, and think: today might be the day.
Today Ounce might have the intel we need.
Today we might finally move on Virgil.
And every night I go to bed with the same rage burning in my chest, no closer to putting that monster in the ground.
The waiting is the worst part.
Worse than the fear.
Worse than the anger.
There's nothing to fight, nothing to fix, nothing to do but sit with my hands tied while the man who hurt my wife walks free.
Every hour that passes is an hour he could be planning his next move.
Every day is another opportunity for him to slip through our defenses.
I've barely slept.
When I do, I dream about the alley.
About Vanna's bruises.
About the things Virgil said he'd do to her, to our baby.
I wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, reaching for my gun before I even know where I am.
The club's been working around the clock.
Ounce has contacts in the underground, people who know people who know Virgil's operation.
He's been making calls, setting up meetings, carefully rebuilding bridges he burned years ago when he got clean.
Ruger's been coordinating with a chapter in Pittsburgh, making sure we have backup if things go sideways.
Porter's handling the logistics—disposal sites, alibis, anything that might tie us to what's coming.
Because itiscoming.
Virgil is going to die.
The only question is when.
"You need to eat something."
