“I think I owe you for my broken nose. My chance will come when Oliver is finished with you.”
Something bit into my neck. Sharp and sudden. The sting of a needle breaking skin.
I had one last moment of clarity. One flash of understanding—what this meant, what Oliver had planned, what was coming for Coop. A scream built in my throat, but my mouth wouldn’t work anymore. My limbs went heavy. The world smeared at the edges.
Then the darkness swallowed everything.
Chapter 26
Coop
The warehouse stank of gun oil and anticipation.
I moved between crates of military-grade hardware, running my hands over rifle stocks and checking serial numbers that had been ground off with professional precision. Playing my role. Doing exactly what Oliver had brought me here to do—evaluate product for the buyers milling around the concrete floor like sharks circling chum.
None of them was familiar. The Gathering had drawn international heavyweights—yakuza representatives, Russian oligarch contacts, men with tailored suits and cold eyes who moved billions in illegal arms.
These buyers were different. Lower tier. The kind of guys who bought in small quantities and asked too many questions. One of them had spent ten minutes haggling over a crate of Glocks like he was at a flea market.
Definitely the B-list. Maybe the A-list were still gun-shy after what had happened.
“The M4s are solid,” I said to the Russian who’d been shadowing me for the past twenty minutes. “Clean. Well-maintained. Your people won’t have complaints.”
He grunted, making notes on his phone in Cyrillic.
I moved to the next crate, but my attention kept drifting to Oliver.
Something was off.
Diesel and Tommy were here—stationed near the south wall, supposedly watching the perimeter. Neither had said a word to me since I’d arrived. Every time I glanced their way, I caught them staring. Hard looks. The kind that promised violence when the opportunity came.
Probably because I’d killed Snake, and men like them held grudges. I didn’t give a shit. Let them glare. I had bigger concerns.
Oliver stood near the main entrance, greeting arriving buyers with that cultured, Manhattan-boardroom smile. Same pressed khakis, same bespoke button-down. But something was different in the way he carried himself today. Too relaxed. Too confident.
He caught me looking and held my gaze for a beat too long. That pale gray stare held something I couldn’t quite read. Amusement, maybe. Like he was enjoying a joke I wasn’t in on.
My instincts prickled.
I scanned the warehouse again, cataloging positions. Fifteen of Oliver’s militia men visible, stationed at strategic points around the floor. Armed, alert, professional. The buyers had their own security—Russians with thick necks, a Japanese contingent with careful eyes, others I couldn’t immediately place.
But Bishop wasn’t here.
Oliver’s shadow. His most trusted man. For someone as paranoid as Oliver, having Bishop absent during a buy—evena small one—didn’t track. The man didn’t take a piss without Bishop watching the door.
I worked my way toward Oliver, keeping my movements casual.
“Hell of a turnout,” I said when I reached him. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Word travels in certain circles.” Oliver’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Quality product, reliable delivery, discretion. The trifecta that keeps buyers coming back.”
“Speaking of your people—where’s Bishop? Figured he’d be glued to your side for something like this.”
Oliver’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind those colorless eyes. “Handling something for me. A loose end that needed attention.”
A loose end.
The phrase landed wrong in my gut.
