“She handed herself over,” I snarl, the words ripping out of me before I can stop them. My breath comes out ragged, splintering on the edges. “Shewalked out that door willingly. To save her friends.”
The fury builds, choking me. “She sacrificed herself,” I hiss, stepping closer. “Handed the damn axe to the executioner and bowed her head to the block.”
The room goes still, the echo of my voice hanging between us like smoke.
Carter swallows. His throat bobs against my grip. His voice stays steady. “Then you’d better keep your head if you want to get her back.”
I shove him away like he burned me. My chest heaves. My hands shake with blood and plaster dust. The room’s silent now, except for the buzz of the monitors that survived my tantrum.
I drag both hands down my face, smearing red across my skin. The taste of iron lingers on my lips where it seeped into the cracks of my knuckles.
Carter straightens his shirt. He doesn’t look at me with fear, not like the others. Just exhaustion. The same exhaustion I feel grinding me down to the bone.
“They moved everything,” I mutter. “The warehouse, the women—wherever they were keeping them before, it’s gone. They wouldn’t risk it while Jackson was inside. But now?—”
“Now he’s out,” Carter finishes for me.
I nod once. Slow. Final.
“He’ll want somewhere temporary. Somewhere no one’s watching. Close enough to move fast. Far enough nobody stumbles on it by accident.”
The others exchange glances. One pipes up, voice uncertain. “It’s going to take time to find it, boss. Finding where he’s at isn’t going to be easy. He could be anywhere.”
I turn on him, slow. His face drains of colour.
“Then find me anywhere,” I growl.
Nobody moves. Nobody breathes.
I know the truth. Jackson’s not going to slip up. He’s not going to leave a trail. And every wasted minute brings me closer to the one image I can’t erase—the look in her eyes when she realizes I didn’t come in time.
I grip the back of a chair and squeeze until the metal groans.
Carter clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice cuts through the static in my skull.
“There are more men here tonight,” he says, quieter now. “Not all of them active. Not all of them… official.”
I lift my head. My vision blurs with fury and plaster dust, but I focus on him. “What the fuck does that mean?”
He doesn’t flinch. He just jerks his chin toward the far end of the hall. Through the glass, I see two figures sitting in the dark— shadows hunched over paper cups, cigarette smoke curling like ghosts above their heads.
Carter steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s letting me in on something no one else is meant to hear.
“Mason’s here. You remember him.”
Of course, I remember Mason. Thickset, always chewing toothpicks, retired five years back. He looks older now, shoulders bent under grief he never put down. His hand trembles when he lifts the cup. Not with age. With rage.
“His girl,” Carter reminds me, eyes heavy, “was nine years old when a stray bullet from one of Jackson’s men tore through their house. Playing with dolls on the goddamn floor. Mason’s never let it go.”
My chest tightens. I remember the call. The body bag so small it barely filled the stretcher. Mason’s wife screaming until her voice broke.
“And Grove,” Carter adds.
Grove was tall, wiry, the kind of man who carries his grief like a noose around his neck.
“His daughter dated Jackson,” Carter says flatly. “For a few months. Thought he was some charming bastard. Then one day—she was gone. No sign of her. No evidence. Just… gone. Grove’s been chasing whispers ever since.”
Mason and Grove aren’t lawmen tonight. They’re executioners waiting for the rope.
