There’s no answer.
I step inside first.
Living room’s a mess—beer bottles, ashtrays, a shotgun leaning against the wall.
And blood. Fresh, trailing down the hallway.
“Looks like he’s expecting us after all,” Diesel mutters behind me.
I tighten my grip on my gun.
“Good,” I growl. “Means he’s still here.”
“Kitchen,” Bishop mutters.
I nod once, then kick the door open.
Switchback’s sitting at the table like he’s been waiting for us. One arm’s braced against his side, blood soaking through his shirt. A pistol rests on the table in front of him, just out of reach.
“Well,” he rasps, lifting his head. His eyes flick between me and Bishop. “Ain’t this a fuckin’ reunion.”
Bishop steps in beside me, his presence filling the room with barely leashed violence.
“You stupid motherfucker,” he says quietly.
Rook moves fast, swatting the gun off the table. It skids across the floor. Diesel grabs Switchback by the collar and slams him back in the chair, the wood cracking under the impact.
Switchback grunts—but then he laughs. “There he is,” he wheezes, looking at Bishop. “The man who let it all go.”
I step forward, planting my hands on the table.
“Start talking,” I growl. “Who else is involved?”
Switchback’s gaze slides to me. Slow. Hateful.
“Still cleanin’ up Viking’s mess, huh?” he sneers. “Or you just fuckin’ what’s left of him?”
The room goes dead silent.
I don’t even remember deciding to move. My fist connects with Switchback’s jaw, snapping his head sideways. The chair nearly tips.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” I say, voice low enough to kill.
Blood drips from his split lip as he grins through it. “Touchy,” he mutters.
“Enough,” Bishop snaps.
He steps forward, grabbing Switchback by the front of his shirt and yanking him upright.
“I want answers,” he says, voice like steel. “Now.”
Switchback spits blood onto the floor.
“You already know the answer,” he says. “You just don’t like it.”
“Then say it,” Rook growls.
Switchback’s eyes flick between them, then he leans back, like he’s settling in for a story.
