Then I hear it. A floorboard creaks to the right.
I raise a fist. Everyone freezes.
Another creak. This one louder. Closer.
“Living room,” Imouth.
We shift direction.
As soon as we cross the threshold a man bolts upright from a sagging couch. Shirtless. Late thirties, maybe older. At least six-two and thick, arms like tree trunks, a gut that stretches the waistband of his stained cargo shorts. Track marks run from wrist to elbow. Five teardrops inked into his cheek.
His eyes land on me. Wide. Wild. His hand jerks toward the coffee table. Gun. He’s fast for someone that size.
I’m faster. I cross the room in two strides and slam him against the wall.
The knife finds his throat.
“Try it,” I whisper.
He freezes, glances at the blade, then at my face. “You—you’re Ashford.” He swallows. “I didn’t know this was your territory. I swear—”
“Your boss knew.” I twist the blade slightly, not enough to kill, just enough to make him whimper. Even as I say it, frustration curls low in my gut. I know how this will go. There won’t be anything in this shithole to tie back to Silas Creed, the leader of the Jackals. No fingerprints. No names. No texts or calls or dumb mistakes. Silas is too fucking smart for that. He keeps his hands clean while his henchmen do the dirty work.
Suddenly, there’s movement to my left.
Jackson’s already there, pinning a second guy to the floor. This one’s younger. Scrawny. Twitchy eyes that dart everywhere. Only one teardrop tattoo, probably from his initiation. You don’t earn the Jackal name until you’ve spilled blood.
Jackson looks up at me, grinning like he’s having a great time. “Want me to make an example of him?”
“No,” I say, my voice low. “Not yet.” I turn back to the man I have up against the wall and hiss, “You’re cooking meth inmytown. Selling dirty coke to kids.” I press the knife deeper. “You’ve got two options. One,” my voice dropping to a near-growl, “you give me the drugs.”
“And option two?” he croaks.
I smile, slow and cold. “You don’t get one.”
He nods, frantic. “Okay. Okay. Just don’t—don’t kill me.”
“Smart man.”
I glance at my brothers, eight of them in the house with me now. I left one by the front door and one at the back as lookouts. “Sweep the place. Make sure it’s just these two losers. We don’t need any surprises.”
A minute later, Michaelson steps back into the room, pale and tense.
“There’s something in the bedroom you need to see,” he tells me. “Come quick.”
I motion for two of the brothers to hold the twitchy kid and the cook and for two more to come with me. We follow Michaelson down a narrow, trash-strewn hallway. The door at the end is half-closed.
The smell hits before I even reach it, something foul layered with perfume and sweat.
Michaelson pushes the door open, and there she is.
Barely conscious. Maybe seventeen. A sheet twisted around her like an afterthought. Bruises on her thighs, her jaw, and one arm. Wearing only a thin pair of underwear.
Rage pours through me, cold and merciless.
“Get her covered. Gently,” I order.
I don’t raise my voice, but every brother in the room stiffens. They know that tone. The one I use right before blood gets spilled. I’m halfway back down the hall when the first guy, the one I pinned to the wall, explodes into motion. He grabs a second gun from under the pile of dirty clothes on the couch and fires at me. The shot misses, but barely. Wood splinters off the doorframe next to my head.
