“Step aside, boys,” Hook murmurs, his voice almost pleasant over the rain. “I’m having a bad night, and you’re the only things in my way.”
He reaches into his tactical vest and pulls out a small, palm-sized block of C4. He’s whistling. Themotherfucker is actually whistling a low, haunting tune as he slaps the explosive onto the centre of the brass doors.
“Whoa, whoa!” I yell, catching up to him, shielding my face from the rain. “James, what the fuck?”
“I like to make an entrance, Peter,” he says, clicking the detonator. “Goes with the brand.”
“Get back!” I dive behind a concrete pillar just as he presses the button.
BOOM.
The explosion isn’t just a sound; it’s a physical punch to the chest. The brass doors don’t just open—they are erased, turned into jagged shrapnel that whistles into the lobby of the club. Glass shatters for a block in every direction. The pink neon sign above us shorts out with a shower of sparks, plunging the entrance into a strobing, smoky darkness.
I scramble up, my ears ringing, the smell of cordite and burnt carpet stinging my nose. Through the smoke, I see Hook walking into the ruins of the foyer like he’s strolling into a gala.
I reach the threshold, stepping over a piece of twisted brass. I look at the doorframe. The locking mechanism is still intact on the jagged remains of the wall. I reach out and turn the handle on the piece of wood that’s left hanging by a hinge.
It clicks. It turns.
“James,” I cough, waving away the smoke. “The handle. It was unlocked. The door was literally open, you psychopath.”
Hook pauses in the middle of the debris-strewn lobby. He turns his head slowly, looking back at me over hisshoulder. A dark, jagged grin cuts across his face, his eyes gleaming with a manic, beautiful chaos.
“I know it was open, Peter,” he says, adjusting the strap of his rifle with his hook. “But an open door is an invitation. An exploded door is a declaration. I don’t want them to invite us in. I want them to know that I’ve arrived to burn the house down.”
He turns back to the inner club, where the music has died and the screaming has started.
“Now,” he growls, the silk finally snapping to reveal the iron underneath. “Let’s go find the man who knows where your girl is.”
The smoke from the breach rolls into the club like a physical weight, carrying the scent of burnt carpet and ozone. The house music is still thumping, a deep, synthetic bass that rattles my teeth, but the rhythm is fracturing under the weight of the screaming.
“Check your six,” Hook says, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears like a razor through silk. He isn’t even looking at the chaos yet. He’s adjusting his cuffs, pulling the black wool of his sleeve down to meet the edge of the surgical steel.
“I’m more worried about my twelve,” I shout back, stepping over a pile of shattered glass. “Especially sinceyou decided to use a tactical nuke on a door that was unlocked. My ears are bleeding, James.”
“Dramatics, Peter. They build character,” he quips, his eyes finally lifting.
The lobby opens into the main floor, a cavernous room bathed in strobe lights that make every movement look like a series of jagged, disconnected snapshots. It’s a fucking nightmare in high-definition. Strippers in nothing but glitter and five-inch heels are scrambling off the poles, their faces masks of pure, unadulterated terror as they slip on spilled champagne. One girl trips over the edge of the stage, her ankle snapping with a sound I can hear even over the music. She doesn’t scream—she just crawls toward the shadows, sobbing.
Security is coming out of the woodwork now. Six of them, clad in cheap suits and wearing expressions of “I don’t get paid enough for this.”
“Silas’s office. Upstairs,” I grunt, nodding toward the velvet-lined balcony.
“You take the left. I’ll take the right,” Hook says, a dark, hungry tilt to his head. “Try to keep the mess off the upholstery. I actually like this velvet.”
The first guard reaches for a submachine gun tucked under his arm. I don’t give him the chance. I lunge across the space, the adrenaline making the world slow down until I can see the individual beads of sweat on his forehead. I jam the barrel of my handgun into the soft meat under his chin and pull the trigger. The muffled thump sends a spray of crimson and grey across the white-tiled bar. He goes down like a sack of wet cement.
To my right, Hook is a fucking artist of the macabre. He doesn’t fire a shot. He weaves through the strobe lights,a shadow among shadows. He catches the second guard by the throat with his good hand, slamming him back against a pillar. The man gasps, his eyes bulging, but before he can even choke out a plea, the hook comes up.
Hook slides the curved steel into the man’s shoulder, right behind the collarbone, and pulls.
The man’s scream is lost in the bass of the music, but I see his mouth open wide, a silent, jagged hole of agony. Hook isn’t killing him yet; he’s unmaking him. He leans in close, whispering something into the man’s ear while the blood soaks into his black suit, turning the fabric a heavy, glistening purple.
“James! Focus!” I yell, snapping a shot into the chest of a guard trying to flank us from behind the bar. The man collapses into a shelf of top-shelf bourbon, the glass shattering in a golden, boozy rain.
“I am focused, Peter,” Hook calls back, finally twisting the hook and letting the guard slump to the floor in a heap of shredded muscle. He looks at his sleeve and tics his tongue. “Dammit. I got a spot on the cuff. You’re right, I should have used the door handle.”
“Glad we’re in agreement while we’re being shot at,” I snap, my chest heaving. The air is thick with the smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of fresh blood. It’s sickeningly human—the way the guards die, the way they gurgle and twitch on the floor. No movie shit. Just the raw, ugly reality of men being turned into meat.
