“I didn’t eat much,” he mutters. “That’s probably it.”
I press into his side and tuck myself under his arm. “Come on. Let me take care of you.”
He hesitates; his instincts whisper, but I smile and lean up. “I’ll make you scream my name all night, baby.”
He grins, glassy-eyed. “I want you to suck my cock.”
Of course you do.
I open the car door and guide him in; he slumps, his body folding, and his head hits the headrest.
Footsteps scrape behind me, and I turn, freezing, scanning the dark alley, but I can’t see shit!
“Hello?” My voice is calm, curious, and fake as hell.
No answer.
The alley stays still, lights flicker behind the dumpster, and the club’s still pounding music inside. I get in the car and shut the door; my hands tremble onthe steering wheel.
Henry’s out cold next to me, slack-jawed, snoring faintly.
The radio blasts to life. Mika. “Love Today.” What can I say? The bubblegum pop songs calm me down.
I sing along. The chorus wraps around us like tinsel and sugar while I drive toward the woods.
The real work begins soon.
Chapter Two
“You got everything?” I turn to Beau.
He nods, already slipping into that headspace: quiet, cold, focused. We’ve done this enough times to fall into rhythm without words.
The request came through our site on the dark web—a father, desperate to get justice for his daughter. I pick up the file for one final read-through.
Henry Lane. Thirty-six.Head administrator at some overpriced private college where hetargets his students, lures them into his office, rapes them, and uses the security footage to blackmail them into silence.
Our investigation confirmed over twenty assaults in the last year alone. One of the parents tried to go to the police. The hospital even collected DNA and filed a report, but someone showed up at their door with a threat: “Keep quiet, or else.” So, everything disappeared—the file, the samples, the evidence.
He thinks he’s untouchable. And he was, until now. Until us.
The Eidolon was born inspired by the monsters we called parents. A decade ago, they proved how little justice means when you’ve got power and money. They killed our best friend and his entire family, just damage control to them, but we lost a brother.
My fists curl tight, nails cutting into my palms. That memory is still too raw. These missions, this is how I stay sane.
“We need to move. He should be at the club by now,” Caleb calls out, already striding toward the SUV. It’s custom-built with blacked-out windows, a bulletproof shell and fake plates. The trunk is reinforced and soundproof, designed to keep someone inside for as long as we need them to be.
If there was one good thing about the inheritance our parents left behind, it was the chance to build something new. Something powerful. We sold everything—the estates, the cars, the businesses, everypiece of their empire.
With it, we built our own: one estate to live and train in, with a tech room, armory, and indoor range.
We pile into the SUV. Beau drives as he always does, smooth and collected, while “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” blasts through the speakers. It’s tradition, his murder playlist, as he calls it: loud, aggressive, chaotic. We all have our rituals: Beau needs noise, Caleb reads thrillers and plays with his lighter—of all things. Me? I go over the plan in my head. Over and over. Every route. Every outcome. Every plan A, B, and C.
We’ve been doing this for almost ten years now and have never been caught. No close calls—the fact that the bodies never turn up helps.
“There’s a line,” Beau mutters, slowing as we approach the club.
“No problem.” I pull out a cigar and light it as we park. I get out of the SUV, nodding toward the bouncer standing at the door.
