Page 68 of Malice

“Load ’em up,” I tell him. “The two in the kitchen go in the van. “This one.” I nod at the bleeder. “Leave him. Let him crawl to a phone. Tell Caldwell what happened.”

I’m in the wreckage, breathing in blood, gunpowder, and the metallic tang of fresh violence. My knuckles throb, my head’s pounding from a hit that should’ve put me out. But I’m still standing. That’s what counts. The message? Clear as day. Through the bleeding guy on the ground, through the battered walls, through a night that’s seen too much. By morning, Caldwell’s crew will know the Devil Souls rode through and left their mark.

Matthew grabs my shoulder. “You good?”

Our eyes meet, sharing the same grim look. Not joy, not satisfaction. Just the raw acceptance of what we’ve done and what we’ll do again before this night ends.

“Yeah,” I grunt, “I’m good.”

We move on, stepping over the bodies. The night wraps around us, heavy and worn. “Shadows stretch, long and menacing, but none as long as the ones we cast ourselves.”

Silence hangs heavy, thick with real understanding. Greyson’s eyes meet mine, noting the tension in my jaw, the blood crusting on my skin like some twisted promise.

The second van growls to life at two fourteen a.m. Inside, the air crackles with something new. Not fear—that was left behind at the safe house. This feels colder, settled deep in my bones like steel. Its purpose, sharp and clear. We are hunters now, and out there, our prey’s already bleeding.

I’m in the passenger seat, Matthew handling the wheel. My bandaged hands rest on my knees, ready for another fight. The gauze is dark and sticky with mixed blood—mine, or theirs—where the stitches split.

The Rusty Nail waits eleven miles south, where streetlights fade and darkness takes over. It’s a dive, where questions drown in murky shadows. Caldwell’s crew sticks to Thursdays in the back room, same table every time. Predictable as hell.

Matthew steers with one hand, the other scrolling through his phone. “Greyson’s team hit the auto shop an hour ago,” he says without looking up. “Three more down. Same drill: two loaded, one left to spill his guts.”

I nod. Simple math. Two spots hit in one night, six men down, one left bleeding in an alley, blabbing our message. Caldwell’s network will be hemorrhaging fear by morning. Fear is our sharpest weapon tonight.

“ETA?” I ask.

“Twenty minutes.” He pockets the phone, eyes scanning my bruises and bloody knuckles. “You need food. You haven’t eaten since⁠—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking, man.”

I look down. Damn, the tremor is back, this constant buzz that screams I’ve hit my limit and then some. I squeeze my fists, feeling skin split, and the pain cuts through the fog like a knife.

“We go to The Rusty Nail,” I say, ignoring him. “Clean. Fast. We’re sending a message, not trashing the joint. Caldwell’s name. My name. Trixie’s fucking name. They need to get why this is going down.”

Matthew sets his jaw. “And if Caldwell’s there?”

The question drops like a grenade. If Caldwell’s sitting in that back room with his crew, shit gets complicated. We planned to cut his network first, piece by piece, until he’s exposed and desperate. But if he shows up early…

“We adapt,” I say, flat, no bullshit. “If he’s there, we take him. But we don’t force it. We stick to the plan.”

Matthew eyes me, reads me, the way my hand drifts to the knife at my hip, the tight coil in my shoulders. He knows the lie I’m biting back.

“You want him,” he states, not a question.

My jaw tightens. Hell yes, I want him. I want Caldwell with a desperation that burns out everything else. I want to grip the bastard who put a target on Trixie’s head. I want to see his face when it dawns on him that his creation, his monster, is here, a heartbeat away from ending him.

“Dead,” I say. The truth is harsh, hangs between us like smoke. “But I want it done right. I want him to know. I want him to feel every fucking second of what he did and who’s closing in.”

Matthew nods. Sharp. “Then we stick to the plan. Hit The Rusty Nail, leave the message, pull back. If he’s there, if he comes close enough, we judge it then.”

The van jolts over a pothole, headlights slicing through the dark, the road shifting from asphalt to gravel to something that barely counts as a road anymore. We’re in the dead zone, the border between what is known and the unknown. The Rusty Nail sits right on that edge, a forgotten relic in the shadows.

My phone vibrates. Trixie.

Can’t sleep. Thinking about you. Are you safe?

Her words slam into me like a punch, not painful, but damn near sacred. She’s thinking about me when she is the one with a price tag on her head, when she’s the one who was pulled toward a van just yesterday.