Page 39 of Tiny's Testament
"Who?"
"Hellhounds."
Torch's hand moves to his gun. "Thought they were dead. Club dissolved, what, five years back?"
"Six," I correct automatically. "They dissolved six years ago. After the Feds hit them for gun trafficking, and half the leadership rolled."
"But?"
"But some of them stayed loyal." My voice sounds hollow, like it's coming from the bottom of a well. "Some of them went underground and waited."
"For what?"
"For someone to pay them enough to come back."
I step closer to the wall. My legs feel too heavy, like I'm walking through water. The paint's still tacky. I press my thumb against the edge of the skull's jaw. It smears, leaving a print.
Fresh. Maybe six, eight hours old.
Creed was here. In this building. Half a day ago.
My stomach turns over. The heat, the smell of spray paint, the weight of the memory. It all crashes down at once like a building collapsing in slow motion.
I stumble back, my hand going to my chest again. My heart's trying to kick through my ribs. I can't breathe right. Can't think straight. The edges of my vision blur, darkness creeping in.
"Whoa, brother." Torch catches my elbow, steadies me. His grip is firm, grounding. "You good?"
"Yeah," I lie for the third time today. "Just the heat. I'm good."
But I'm not good because Creed doesn't just mark territory. He markspeople. He marked me when I was seventeen andstupid and desperate to belong. Cut my palm, mixed my blood with his, and said,Family's forever.
And now he's working for Lattimer. The man who taught me how to be a monster is about to teach Lattimer how to burn my family to ash.
My right hand throbs. I look down, half-expecting to see blood. But it's just the scar—raised, white, angry. The one from that first spray can. The one Creed said would remind me who I was.
I flex my fingers. The scar pulls tight, burning like a fresh injury.Marked and bound.
"You sure you're good?" Torch asks, still holding my elbow. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Maybe I have," I mutter.
Dagger's voice crackles through the comm. "West side's clear. No movement. But I found fresh tire tracks of a heavy vehicle, probably a truck. Headed east."
"Copy," I manage. "Regroup outside. We're moving."
Torch studies my face for another second, then nods. "Let's roll."
He heads for the door. I follow, but I can't help looking back one more time. The mark watches me. Empty sockets. Snarling jaw.You can run,it seems to say.But I'll always find you.
We back out slowly. We regroup at the bikes. Dagger and Trigger converge from their perimeters, faces grim. Bones checks his phone, shaking his head.
"Empty," Trigger reports. "But there are more fresh tire tracks on the east service road. Heavy vehicle, deep treads. Left maybe two hours ago, judging by the dust settling."
"Same south," Dagger adds. "Someone was here. Recently. And they didn't care about covering their tracks."
They both look at me. Waiting for orders. Waiting for their Road Captain to make the call.
I should tell them. Right now. Point back at that building and say,"That's Hellhound work. My old club. The one I ran from. They're here, and they're working for Lattimer, and the man who taught me everything I know about violence is inside our city planning to destroy us."The words sit in my throat like broken glass. I can feel them cutting on the way up, taste blood before I even speak.
