The "meeting" with the fat men and their well-dressed friends hadn't been a coincidence or bad luck. Hadn't been about the fight club or owing money or any of the dozen other explanations that might have made sense in a normal world.
That had been a message.
A declaration.
We know who you are. We know where you are. We're coming.
And I'd received it loud and clear.
The building they'd taken me to had been industrial. Abandoned, or close to it. Windows broken out, leaving jagged glass teeth. Graffiti covering the walls in layers of competing tags. The kind of place people went when they wanted privacy for conversations that couldn't happen in public spaces with witnesses and security cameras.
Three floors up through stairwells that smelled like rust and old concrete and human piss, into a room with broken windows letting in cold air and water damage staining the walls black with mold.
The fat men had hung back by the door immediately, nervous, suddenly understanding they were way out of their depth. That this wasn't about fight clubs or money. That they'd been used as bait and nothing more.
The three suits had spread out with professional precision, cutting off escape routes, hands visible but positioned to draw weapons fast.
Military training. Or something close to it.
And then the one in charge had spoken.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Eastern European features and thick accent. Cold eyes that had seen violence and weren't remotely bothered by it.
"You are one of the Nine."
Not a question.
Not speculation.
A statement of absolute fact delivered with bone-deep certainty.
My blood had gone cold despite the adrenaline flooding my system.
St. Paul's.
After all these years, they still survived.
"Don't know what you're talking about," I'd said, voice carefully flat, buying time to assess the situation and plan my exit.
The man had smiled without any warmth or humor. "Kane Black. Escaped St. Paul's School for Boys eighteen years ago with eight others after killing Headmaster Thorne and burning the facility. We have been looking for you. For all of you. For a very long time."
He'd pulled out a tablet from inside his expensive jacket, swiped through images with methodical efficiency.
Photos.
Current photos.
Of me. Of Connor. Of the others scattered across the globe, friends I hadn't seen in person in years.
Surveillance photos taken recently, in Bangkok.
Someone had been watching. Tracking. Building comprehensive files on all of us.
"We know all …”
That's when I'd moved.
Because they knew too much. Way too much. And waiting longer would only give them time to call for backup or reveal more intel I didn't want them to have.
