Target just left the apartment. Alone. On foot. Headed southwest through an alley.
My pulse kicked up.
“She’s walking alone and just cut into an alley.”
“Of course she is,” Rory said. “It’s only Halloween in fucking Hell’s Kitchen. She have a death wish?”
What the fuck was she thinking? Did she want to get jumped? Did she think that hoodie would keep her safe? That someone wouldn’t pull her into a van and erase her off the goddamn map?
“I don’t know. But if she keeps this up, she’s going to get herself killed,” I bit out.
Rory leaned forward. “You want backup?”
“No.” I stood. “Just drop me off down the block from the club.”
“Figures. I’ll stay close by.”
I paused. “She has no fucking clue about the world she’s in.”
Rory’s voice dropped. “She will.”
We stepped out onto the sidewalk and got into the car.
She didn’t know it yet, but from this point on, she wasn’t walking alone.
Not ever again.
We stopped a block south of the club, and I got out and made my way toward the front of the building. The Sacrifice didn’t advertise itself. No neon lights. No flashing signs. Just a tall, sleek black facade with a single mirrored door and smoked-glass windows that reflected the streetlights. If you didn’t know what it was, you might guess it was a high-end private lounge. It was minimalist, upscale, and discreet—the kind of place meant to intimidate rather than entice.
There were no girls out front. No bouncers were visible. The place radiated a subtle, almost arrogant stillness.
Turning the corner, I ducked into the alley and scanned for a clean way inside. Two trash bins and a loading platform partially obscured the back entrance. Graffiti covered the brick walls—tags, warnings, symbols that marked gang territory. A single motion-sensor light flickered above the door, and I noticed a palm scanner by the doorframe. I ducked behind the bins to watch the back entrance of the club. A rat scurried past. Then I heard footsteps.
Lyla turned the corner, heading for the back door, just feet from where I was hidden.
She wore black sweatpants and a baggy hoodie that obscured her face. Her backpack hung off one shoulder, and she had her phone in hand. She stepped up to the scanner and pressed her palm against it before slipping inside.
I lit a cigarette, leaned back against the wall, and took one long drag. I shouldn’t go in.
But I was going to.
Just then, a man rounded the corner, focusing on trying to light up a smoke with a shitty plastic lighter. He was a clean-cut type in a tailored navy suit, maybe in his late thirties. Expensive watch. Confident gait.
A golden opportunity for me.
I flicked my half-smoked cigarette onto the ground and stepped out from the shadows right in front of him.
“Hey—!” He startled.
My fist cracked against his jaw. He stumbled back, wide-eyed, and I caught him in a chokehold, dragging him into the darkness between two dumpsters. He flailed for a second—brief, useless panic—then slumped.
Glancing around, I crouched beside him and checked his pulse. Alive.
I took his wallet, slipped the ID out, snapped a quick photo, and texted it to Rory with an order:
Make him disappear.
No reply necessary.
