Page 69 of Malice

I’m safe, I type, clumsy fingers fumbling. Sending a message. Go back to sleep. I’ll call in the morning.

The reply comes quick. Be careful, Carter. Please.

I stare at it until it blurs. That one word, please, it twists my guts. She’s worried about me after all that’s happened. I feel my chest crack open, wide and raw.

I will. I love you.

I love you too. Come home to me.

I shove the phone back in my pocket, eyes on the dark road. Lights cut through the night and catch eyes in the trees, there and gone.

“Trixie?” Matthew asks.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t need to. The silence fills with understanding, a woman north of us matters more than anything. Every step tonight is measured against the promise I made to come back to her.

The Rusty Nail comes up like a scar in the dark, a weather-beaten building with rusted metal bones and a neon sign that flickers like a dying nerve. The parking lot’s scattered with trucks, bikes, and a sedan with tinted windows that screams bad news. From inside, the bass hits hard, a soundtrack for breaking stuff and promises.

Matthew kills the lights and glides the van behind some pines, the engine dying to silence. No music, no engine, just the tick of cooling metal and my heartbeat loud in my ears.

“Recon first,” I mutter, hand on the door handle. “Wanna know what we’re getting into.”

Matthew gives a sharp jerk of his chin, pulling out binoculars to scan the lot like he’s born to do it. His eyes narrow, reading the scene like a poker hand.

“Four vehicles,” he says. “Two Harleys, a pickup with Savage Oath tags, and the sedan. Windows tinted. Engine’s still running. Someone’s in there.”

A lookout. Shit. That complicates things.

“Back entrance?” I ask.

“East side, fire door’s ajar. Cinder block holding it. No cameras, but a dead floodlight. Could be lazy, could be bait,” Matthew responds.

Front means walking into a shark tank. Back has a narrow hallway with the potential for an ambush.

“Back door,” I decide. “We slip in, hit the back room, drop our message, get out. If the sedan moves, Greyson’s team takes it.”

Matthew relays the plan through the comms—simple, terse.

“Copy. Standing by.”

We move.

The night air slaps me, cold, sharp, smelling of pine, exhaust, and something rotten like old beer. Between us and the bar is thirty yards of exposed ground. I keep low, hugging the shadows, Matthew a ghost on my left.

The floodlight’s dead, hanging like a bad omen. The cinder block props the door an inch or two, warm, smoky air billowing out, thick with the smell of grease and cigarettes.

I press my back against the wall, feeling the rough concrete bite into my shoulder blades. The voices inside are a slurry of booze-soaked bravado, louder than they should be, like they’re just begging for trouble. One of them laughs, a jagged cackle that grates on my nerves. I catch the clink of glass on glass, the sound making the whole thing feel like a goddamn playground instead of a powder keg.

I shoot a glance at Matthew, flicking two fingers then curling them into a fist. He nods, calm as a sniper, gun ready but relaxed, like he’s done this dance a hundred times. The bastard lives in this zone—no fear, no thrill, just cold, hard readiness.

The door creaks when I nudge it open, a rusty groan that should jolt me, but the racket inside swallows it whole. The corridor is a piss-smelling alley masquerading as a hallway, dim and narrow, the floor tacky underfoot like it’s been marinated in stale beer and sweat.

Voices rise as we creep deeper, the passageway splitting ahead: left to the thumping heart of the bar, right to a door scrawled with PRIVATE. MEMBERS ONLY. Like they need the reminder.

The back room is where the magic or the fuckery happens.

I stalk toward it, each step a silent threat, heart pounding a rhythm to match the bass thrumming through the walls. I pause at the door, listen close. Three voices, maybe four, a jumble of careless words that only comes when men think they’re untouchable.