Page 66 of Malice

I jam the phone into my pocket and hunch over the map spread across the scarred table, Meridian and all those cursed counties etched like a roadmap to hell. Pushpins pierce the wood where Ashton’s intel hits, red thread spinning a tangled web of warnings, more menace than strategy. Matthew’s on my left, eyes darting between his phone and the map, marker in hand, leaving fierce lines that score deeper than words. Greyson sits at the head, gaze icy and sharp, raking across the terrain like he’s plotting a takeover.

The room smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and the sweat of men who have stopped asking questions.

My knuckles are bandaged tight, blood seeping through the gauze, each pulse reminding me that pain is part of the deal. I stretch my fingers, welcoming the sting, a twisted comfort that tells me I’m alive, I’m here, and I’m ready for whatever comes next. “They’re at the cabin,” I say, my voice steadier than it should be. “Kane’s patrolling the perimeter. They’re secure.”

Greyson nods. “Good.” He leans forward, planting both hands on the map, and the room shrinks to the space between his palms, the pushpins, and the thread that ties them together. “Now we hunt.”

The word hits the table like a spark, lighting a fire in my gut. Every damn man here—Matthew, the prospects, all these hard-eyed bastards—feels it catch. We don’t sit back. We don’t falter. We hunt. We find those bastards, and we end this mess.

“Ashton’s intel gives us three locations,” Matthew barks, slapping the map like it owes him money. “Safe house on the south side, comms drop at some busted-ass auto shop off Route 9, and Caldwell’s crew meeting at The Rusty Nail, where they suck each other’s dicks every week.”

My eyes are glued to the map. It’s like I’m in a cage fight, sizing up my opponent, distance, angles, how I’m going to knock them the fuck out. The safe house isn’t far, twenty minutes into a piss-poor part of town. The auto shop’s out where the city starts losing its shit. And The Rusty Nail? Farther south, a stretch of road where civilization goes to die with the booze and the whores.

“Start at the bottom,” Greyson growls, each word landing flat and final. “Let the bastards know we’re coming.”

The plan snaps into place, sharp and clear. Not some obvious hit on Caldwell, that bastard would see it coming. Attack him head-on, and he’s got a fortress between us. But if we start from the bottom, picking his operation apart bit by bit, his entire world crumbles. Hit the safe house, then the shop, then the bar. Make his guys fear even the thought of us. By the time we reach Caldwell, he’ll have nothing left but fear and an empty room. Turn the tables, make him the prey he really is.

“I want them talking,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous. “Every scumbag we take down screams his name. I want him knowing we’re right there, closing in. I want him cowering, feeling his empire slip through his fingers.”

Matthew’s jaw clenches, something like pride flickering in his eyes. “Word spreads fast,” he says. “Hit ’em today, and by tomorrow morning, everyone will know the Devil Souls are ripping through.”

“Let ’em know,” Greyson grunts, eyes locking onto mine. This isn’t permission. It’s understanding. He’s felt that rage, that need to protect family. “Make it loud, make it fucking clear. Make sure Caldwell damn well hears us before we kick his front door in.”

The plan forms like a weapon being loaded efficient, deadly. Tonight’s the night. The safe house first, easy pickings. Matthew’s on recon, gathering intel like a bloodhound. Greyson’s got the team running like a well-oiled machine. And me? I’m the one who walks through the door first.

No arguments, no fucking debate. This is mine to own, not just because Trixie is mine, but because this fury needs a direction, a target. Marcus Caldwell’s going to feel it like a knife between the ribs.

“South side of the safe house,” I say, my finger leaving a bloody mark on the map. “Tonight. We go in hard, fast, leave one alive to send the message.”

“Which message?” Matthew asks.

I lock eyes with him, the unspoken question hanging heavy in the air. He’s not after strategies, he’s sniffing for blood. How much of it do we spill before the last guy limps back to his boss?

“The message,” I growl, my voice rough and raw, “is that the Devil Souls know who he is. We’re on the prowl, and every bastard between us and Caldwell is already as good as dead. They just don’t know it yet.”

Nobody in the room moves, not even to shift their weight or clear their throat. Nobody wants to blink when the truth hits like dynamite.

Matthew’s nod is quick and sharp. “Then we ride,” he says.

By eleven forty-seven p.m., two black vans glide out, spectral and silent, weaving through our concrete jungle. I’m up front with Matthew and a couple of Greyson’s handpicked prospects. Behind us, the second van keeps its distance, packed with Greyson and his crew, ready to unleash hell if it comes to that.

Inside, the van’s chill bites at me, the metal cold and unforgiving, while my knees jitter like a boxer’s. My freshly wrapped knuckles throb with each move, a reminder of Trixie’s last text, a damn prayer burning in my pocket.

As we roll through the neighborhood, it falls apart, lights flickering out, houses shrinking into battered bungalows locked up like cages. Graffiti climbs the crumbling walls, the air heavy with diesel, rot, and fear, a place clinging to life by its fingernails.

“Two blocks out,” Matthew cuts in, his voice sharp enough to crack the silence. “Safe house is the green shit box on the left. Chain-link fence, broken gate. SUV and sedan in the drive. Lights on in the front and back.”

I crack my neck, the vertebrae snapping like gunfire. I’m locked in, ready to do damage, ready to fucking end this.

“Cameras?” I ask, voice low, dangerous.

“One. Cheap-ass thing above the door. Probably decorative. “The back door’s an easy mark from the alley. The kitchen window’s wide open—saw it myself.”

I nod, the gears turning in my head. Caldwell’s sloppy, or he’s desperate. Either works for us.

The van crawls to a stop, its engine a low, hungry rumble. My heart’s racing, a drumbeat in time with the need to protect what’s mine.

“Go time,” Matthew says.