“Handling some business.”
A pause. “The fire?”
“We have a lead.”
“Kai...” She hesitates. “Be careful, okay?”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Her laugh is soft. I hold onto the sound. In a few minutes, I'm going to walk into a room and do things that would makeher look at me differently. Her voice keeps me tethered to the version of myself I want to be. The version that deserves her.
“I'll call you later,” I say.
“You better.”
I hang up, stare at the phone a moment longer. Then put it away.
My phone buzzes.
Maddox: You coming?
He's waiting in the shadows near an old loading dock. Dressed in black, tactical instead of leather. The curved handle of his karambit catches the light at his waist.
Logan and Ethan flank him. Logan's got his sleeves rolled up, restless energy rolling off him. Ethan leans against a car, arms crossed, quiet, coiled tight.
“You called them,” I say to Maddox.
“You need backup.” He shrugs. “They needed to hit something.”
Logan grins, but there's an edge to it. “Been stuck in conference rooms for a week. This is practically a spa day.”
Ethan gives me a nod. Knuckles already taped. He came prepared.
“The clubhouse is around the corner,” Maddox says, tilting his head toward the abandoned factory. “I've been watching for two hours. Most of them cleared out around ten. Four left inside. Two are from Ravenwood. I matched their faces to the camera footage.”
“You're sure?”
“Don't insult me.”
I look at the three of them. We built ELK together. Fought for it. Bled for it. Now we're about to walk into a room full of men who tried to burn down a school with kids inside.
“We go in, we talk first,” I say. “I want information, not a body count. If they swing?—“
“Then we swing back,” Logan finishes.
“Harder,” Ethan adds quietly.
Maddox says nothing. He doesn't need to.
The factory is a hollowed-out shell. Graffiti on the walls, broken glass crunching under our feet. Music bleeds from somewhere deeper inside, bass-heavy and loud enough to cover our approach.
We find them in what used to be an office space, now a makeshift clubhouse. Ratty couches, a bar made from shipping pallets, Serpent colors on the wall. Four guys, just like Maddox said. Two at the pool table; a big bald one with neck tattoos and a wiry guy with a shaved head, scar cutting through his eyebrow. Two more at the bar; one with a greasy ponytail nursing a beer, the other stocky and young, barely out of his teens.
I walk in first. The music dies when Ponytail spots me and kills the speaker.
