Page 74 of Malice

“He’s not going anywhere,” Greyson continues, turning back to Butcher. “Garcia made his play tonight. He wanted to see how we’d react, how far he could push. Now he knows.” Something dark moves through his expression, not fear, but the cold recognition of a man who’s just identified a new threat on his horizon. “And we know what he wants. That gives us time. And like hell we are going to hand over one of the princesses.”

Butcher’s chest heaves, his massive frame still vibrating with residual fury. But the logic in Greyson’s words cuts through his rage like a blade through smoke.

“What do you need from me?” Butcher asks, and the question sounds like it’s being dragged out of him by force.

“Your head clear and your hands steady.” Greyson turns to the rest of us, scanning the room with those striking blue eyes. “We’ve hit three of Caldwell’s locations. His network is bleeding. The message is out. But the contract is still active, and Trixie is still a target until we pull this thing out by the root.”

He looks at me. Directly, without pretense or preamble.

“We know where he’ll be tomorrow night. Ashton’s intel gave us The Rusty Nail, eight o’clock, back room. Caldwell meets with his lieutenants on Thursdays. Has for years. He’ll be there.”

The words land in my chest like a detonation. My hands curl into fists at my sides, and I feel the split knuckles protest, blood seeping fresh through the gauze.

“We go tomorrow,” I say. Not a question. A declaration.

Greyson studies me for a long moment. I can see him reading everything: the rage, the exhaustion, the raw, visceral need to finish this, to look Caldwell in the eye and make him understand what he’s done. He knows what I’m asking. Knows what it will cost.

“Tomorrow,” he confirms. “Full club. We hit The Rusty Nail at eight, and we don’t leave until Caldwell is ours.”

The room stirs, not with excitement, but with the charged energy of men who’ve been waiting for the green light. Matthew’s already pulling out his phone, mapping routes, coordinating with the prospects. Butcher turns away from the cracked wall, his fury redirecting itself toward something actionable, something that doesn’t involve a Russian businessman who thinks he owns the world.

“I want every brother armed and ready by six,” Greyson continues, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. “Matthew, you handle logistics. “Carter—” He pauses, and something passes between us—an acknowledgment, a permission, a warning all wrapped into one. “You’re point. But you follow the plan. No deviations. No solo heroics. We do this clean, we do this together, and we bring Caldwell back alive.”

Alive. The word sits in my gut like a stone. I want Caldwell dead. I want to feel his heartbeat stop under my hands, want to feel his last breath on my knuckles, want to be the last thing he sees before the end. But Greyson’s right, killing him quickly is a mercy. What I need is information. What I need is the names of every person involved in the contract, every broker, every middleman, every two-bit killer who might still have Trixie’s name on a list.

Alive means I can make him talk.

“Alive,” I agree, and the word tastes like ash.

The next twenty-four hours pass in a blur of preparation and barely contained fury.

I catch a rough three hours of sleep on a cot in the back room of the clubhouse, holding on to my phone with bandaged fingers. Trixie’s last text blazes on the screen: Please come back to me whole. My dreams are flashes of Trixie’s torn scalp, screams I can’t place, and a van’s engine roaring right behind me. But I wake up before they fully unravel, instinctively knowing the nightmare outside is worse than any in my head.

Matthew shakes me awake at five, offering coffee and a cold compress for my knuckles. The swelling’s down, but the skin’s split in three spots, the gauze crusted with dried blood. He cleans and wraps them again without a word, moving with the precision of someone who’s patched up his brothers more times than he can remember.

“You look like shit,” he says, pressing a fresh strip of gauze across my left hand.

“Feel worse.”

He ties off the bandage and sits back on his heels, studying me with that quiet, assessing gaze. “You need to eat. Greyson’s orders.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t care.” He tosses a protein bar at me. “Eat it or I’ll force-feed you.”

I tear the wrapper with my teeth and choke it down, barely tasting it. My body needs fuel, I know this, the fighter’s instinct that understands the mechanics of violence and the fuel required to sustain it, but every bite feels like swallowing sand.

The clubhouse changes as the day rolls on. Brothers roll in at intervals, some fresh, others wearing the grit and edge of last night’s raids. Matthew hands out weapons, and we check and recheck them. Maps cover the walls, red lines slashing across them, check points circled with annotations in Matthew’s tidy scrawl. The air buzzes with gun oil, coffee, and the tense anticipation of men preparing for a fight they might not walk away from.

I spend the afternoon on the phone with my dad, checking the cabin’s perimeter, making sure Trixie’s safe. Dad says she’s hanging in there, quiet but steady, helping Mom with supplies, finding solace in a book on the porch, her bandaged hands clutching it tight. He leaves it unsaid, but it’s there in his tone. She’s waiting, counting the hours, like me.

By six, the clubhouse is packed. Every member’s here, each prospect accounted for. The room thrums, not with fear, not quite excitement, but the sharp readiness of men who know the stakes all too well.

Greyson takes his place at the head of the table, the room falling silent. “Caldwell will hit The Rusty Nail at eight,” he starts, his voice steady and clear. “He’s got muscle, six or seven guys, armed pros. Two exits front and back. Matthew’s team covers the back, Carter’s the front. Butcher, you’ve got perimeter duty. No one leaves that parking lot without our say-so.”

He gives the plan a moment to sink in.

“We need Caldwell alive, no exceptions. But his men?” Something dark flickers across his face. “They’re collateral. If they pull, you drop them. Don’t hesitate. Don’t think twice. This isn’t a chat. This is an extraction.”