Page 27 of Spade

The world outside the van was cold enough to numb the edges of your fingers. I zipped my jacket, checked the alley, and kept low, my boots landing soundless in old puddles. The moon was just a rumor behind the city clouds, and the only light came from that radioactive Starlight sign, pink and nervous as a prom queen. At the mouth of the alley, I stopped and waited.

Selene hung back, hands in pockets, head tilted like she was already building the story she’d tell the club if this went sideways. I could hear her breathing, slow and tight, like she was trying to shrink herself down to the size of a bullet.

12:04, right on schedule. The side door opened with a hiss, and Dario stepped out. I’d seen him a dozen times, always the same: hunched in that club-logo bomber, jaw working on a toothpick, never looking where he was going. The canvas bag hung off his left shoulder. Phone in his right hand, thumb dancing on the screen. He didn’t see me. He didn’t see anything.

He cleared the door, turned to his left, and walked straight past the dumpster. I let him get three steps into the choke point, then I moved. The alley walls did most of the work—funneled him into my arm. I looped the wire around his windpipe, hooked my wrist, and felt the bones shift as he tried to yell. The knife was already in my hand. I buried it under his ribs, angling up, sharp and quick. The way he jerked told me I’d hit the mark. The phone hit asphalt, screen cracking on impact. The canvas bag swung and bounced against my hip.

Dario fought for maybe five seconds, panic and pride playing tug-of-war in his nervous system. I kept the pressure until his legs started to fail, then let him down easy. I braced his body with my knee and held him upright until I felt the wet warmth blossom against my forearm, a final release. I rolled him behind the dumpster, out of the sight line, and pulled the blade free.

“Now you know why I brought you on,” Selene said. “Fucking badass.”

“One more to go, Boss.”

The phone buzzed where it landed, a pitiful vibration echoing off the alley walls. I crushed it under my boot.

Selene didn’t flinch. Her back was pressed to the brick, scanning the street for witnesses. Her jaw was locked, and her knuckles had gone white around the cigarette she’d forgotten to light. She met my eyes, then flicked her gaze to the body.

“You got blood on your jacket,” she said.

I methodically wiped the blade on Dario’s sleeve. “It’ll wash.”

Selene finally took out her lighter, thumbed the wheel, and drew in a breath deep enough to hollow her chest. “He didn’t even look up,” she said.

“They never do.”

She kept her eyes on the corner, didn’t ask what happened next. She knew.

I left Dario where he was and waited, watching the digital on my wrist: 12:22. The window was shrinking. A car crawled past on the far side of the street, then another, but neither slowed nor showed interest. Selene moved closer, her boots barely making a sound.

“You need help with the next one?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Just watch the street.”

The next door opening was softer, almost apologetic. Colt came out hunched, glancing over his shoulder before he even stepped into the alley. He wore a vest over a flannel, a ball cap low on his brow, face shadowed but jittery. I heard the scuff of his shoes as he hesitated, saw him clock the smashed phone at his feet.

“Dario?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the dark. “Hey. You fuckin’ out here?”

He took a few careful steps, scanning the edges. I could see his hand moving to his waistband, a twitchy readiness.

“Dario, don’t fuck with me, man.” He was close now, the whites of his eyes flashing in the pink neon spill.

I stepped out. Not dramatic, not rushed. Just a body materializing from shadow, face neutral.

Colt reached for the gun at his belt. That was the mistake. I took two strides, planted my foot, and drove my forearm into his throat, pinning him to the wall. The collision rattled the downspout and sent a chunk of brick dust to the ground. He fumbled with his grip, got a hand around my wrist, but he didn’t have leverage. I brought the knife up under his chin, the tip dimpling skin.

He froze, smart enough to know the next move wasn’t his. His breathing was wet, panicked.

I said, “You piece of shit, running girls out of a storage unit.”

He shook his head, but the denial was just theater. “I’m just the driver, man. I don’t know nothing. I just—please. I got kids.”

I pressed the blade until it drew a thin line of blood. “I know what you are. I know what you did, and both are death sentences in my book, bitch.”

He tried again, tears flowing in a pathetic litany. “I’m just a driver, please, please don’t—”

I drove the knife in, fast and straight, right through the larynx. His knees went first. I held his collar until the struggling stopped, then let him crumple. His cheek left a red smear on the bricks on the way down.

I looked up. Selene was halfway down the alley, her hands at her sides, fingers curled. She wasn’t shocked, just hollowed out. Her breathing had gotten loud enough for me to hear it, a hard draw in, sharp exhale.