“Because the Crow won’t be expecting me to come.” I lean back against the leather seat, already planning. “I’ve been retired. Murder sober. Word spreads fast in our world, Hans. The fact that I haven’t done anything to the Crow in retaliation for Peter’s death tells them everything they need to know—that I won’t.”
Hans glances at me in the rearview mirror. “And now?”
“Now they’re about to learn that some things are worth breaking sobriety for.”
Chapter Five
Saylor
The first thing I notice is the sound of rain.
Heavy, persistent drumming against glass somewhere above me. Like the sky decided to empty itself all at once and won’t stop until there’s nothing left.
The second thing I notice is that I’m not tied up.
I keep my eyes closed while I take inventory. Wrists free. Ankles free. No gag in my mouth. Either these assholes are incredibly stupid, or they think I’m so harmless that restraints would be overkill. Both possibilities piss me off.
I’m lying on something that might generously be called a couch, though it feels more like a collection of springs wrapped in fabric that gave up hope sometime in the nineties. The smell hits me next—stale cigarettes, spilled beer, and unwashed bodies.
My father’s compass rests heavy against my throat, and I focus on its weight to keep from hyperventilating. Peter Mitchell raised a survivor, not a victim. I will not give these fuckers the satisfaction of seeing Sara Mitchell cower. That scared little girl died the night they killed my father. They just don’t know it yet.
I crack my eyes open just enough to see through my lashes, keeping my breathing steady and even.
“—should’ve been back by now.” The voice comes from somewhere to my left, rough with impatience. “Caymans job was supposed to be simple. In and out.”
“Brutus doesn’t do simple.” This voice is younger, casual in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Remember the senator’s wife? He was supposed to make it look like an accident. Instead, we had to clean up body parts from three different counties.” A laugh follows, like he’s recounting a funny story from college. “Took us all weekend to find her head. Found it in a fucking tree, if you can believe that.”
“At least he got creative with it,” the rough voice says with what sounds like genuine appreciation. “Better than that boring shit wedid in Phoenix. Three bullets, dump the body, collect the check. Where’s the artistry in that?”
My blood turns to ice water. Fuck them. Fuck them for discussing murder like it’s a weekend hobby.
“That was different. Personal.” A third voice, older, with the weight of authority. “This one’s business. Container manifest says the target was skimming from the cartel. Bad for business, bad for everyone involved.”
“Still think he’s having too much fun down there. Sun, sand, those little drinks with the umbrellas. Why the hell do we have to run operations out of this shithole when we could be somewhere warm,” says the first voice I heard.
Through my barely open lashes, I catalog the room. Low ceiling, water stains spreading across yellowed plaster like abstract art painted in neglect. Heavy wooden beams that look original to whatever decade this place was built. The windows are small and set high, streaked with grime and years of neglect—that’s where the relentless drumming is coming from. The glass is so dirty I can barely make out the gray sky beyond.
Three men visible from my position. The youngest one is tall and wiry, constantly moving. Tattoos crawl up his neck like black ivy. His hands never stop moving—fingers drumming against his thigh, foot tapping a rhythm only he can hear.
The second one is built like a linebacker. Massive shoulders, huge hands, and scars crisscrossing his knuckles. He’s cleaning his fingernails with a knife, the blade nicked and worn.
The third one sits behind a table scattered with papers and photos. Salt-and-pepper hair, expensive watch, tailored suit. He carries himself like he’s in charge.
“Crowshaven’s perfect for our purposes,” the man in the suit says, not looking up from his paperwork. “Close enough to Seattle for contracts, far enough out that nobody asks questions. Coast access for disposal. And the weather keeps the tourists away.”
“Still hate the fucking rain,” Twitchy mutters, lighting another cigarette despite the haze that already hangs in the air. “Makes my joints ache.”
“Your joints ache because you’re getting old,” Granite Handsrumbles without looking up from his knife. “Rain just gives you something to blame it on.”
The casual way they discuss their work makes my skin crawl. These aren’t desperate men driven to violence by circumstance. These are professionals who’ve made murder their business.
The man in the suit shuffles through his papers, pulling out what looks like a photo. “Speaking of business, we’ve got another contract coming in. Witness protection dropout in Portland. Husband finally tracked her down.”
“What’s the timeline?” Granite Hands asks.
“Two weeks. Client wants it to look like a robbery gone wrong. Nothing complicated.” The man in the suit sets the photo aside like he’s filing tax returns. “Standard domestic violence cleanup. Thousand down, four thousand on completion.”
My hands want to shake with rage, but I force them to stay still. They’re talking about killing a woman who escaped an abusive marriage. Discussing her murder with the same tone they’d use to plan a grocery run. Some woman with a name, a life, a family who loves her.
