“You ran. You brought attention. You got a motorcycle club sniffing around.”
He studies my face.
“And you’ve clearly been used.”
There it is.
The insult. The calculation.
I hold his gaze.
“Still breathing,” I say.
Something flickers in his eyes.
He didn’t expect that.
“I’ll still sell you,” he continues calmly. “But you don’t get the careful client now. You get the one who likes resistance.”
My stomach tightens.
Just a little.
But not from fear.
From anger.
“You think they won’t find you?” I ask.
He smiles again.
“They?”
“The Saints.”
That smile slips, just barely.
“They won’t get here in time.”
I lean back against the wall as much as the rope allows.
“They always do.”
A sharp crack echoes from somewhere in the building.
His head turns slightly.
Another one.
Louder.
A door slamming open.
He stands abruptly.
“You think they can just—”
The warehouse explodes.
