Page 75 of Malice

The word hits the room like a judge’s gavel. A cold, cutting clarity settles in my gut as the mission solidifies. This isn’t about revenge or rage. This is extraction. We’re going to wrench Caldwell out of his hole and drag him somewhere I can make him see the havoc he’s caused.

“Questions?” Greyson asks.

Nobody speaks. The silence is answer enough.

“Then we ride.”

The convoy rolls out at seven fifteen. Three vehicles, twelve men, enough firepower to level a small building. I ride with Matthew in the lead van, my gun holstered at my hip, my knife strapped to my thigh, my bandaged hands resting on my knees in what I hope looks like calm.

It’s not calm. Every nerve in my body is screaming, every muscle coiled tight, the adrenaline a high-voltage current building in my bloodstream. I think about Trixie, her bandaged hands, the raw spot on her scalp, the way she looked at me in the parking lot with those steady, brave eyes, and the dam cracks a little further.

“She’s safe,” Matthew says, reading my silence the way only someone who’s been in the same dark places can. “Kane won’t let anything happen to her.”

“I know.”

“Then trust it. Focus on what’s in front of you.”

I nod, but my jaw is clenched so tight I can feel my molars grinding. The road unwinds beneath us, the city giving way to the industrial fringe, the landscape growing sparse and ugly as we approach The Rusty Nail’s territory.

Matthew pulls the van into a side alley two blocks from the target, killing the engine. The silence that follows is absolute, no radio, no engine, just the tick of cooling metal and the sound of my own heartbeat.

“Showtime,” Matthew murmurs.

We move.

The night air hits me like a physical thing, cold, sharp, carrying the smell of diesel and burnt plastic from the nearby warehouses. The Rusty Nail sits at the end of the block, its neon sign flickering weakly, casting everything in a sickly red glow. The parking lot is half full: trucks, sedans, a line of motorcycles parked near the entrance like sentinels.

Caldwell’s here.

I can feel it—a shift in the atmosphere, the electric charge of a predator sensing prey. My hands are steady now, the tremor gone, replaced by something colder and more focused. The beast is awake, and it’s hungry.

Matthew’s team slips toward the back entrance in pairs, weapons ready but down low. I guide my crew to the front, four men with me, including Butcher and two prospects Greyson picked for their quickness and stealth. We come in from the east, hugging the parked cars for cover, every step silent and intentional.

The front door stands open—it’s either a rookie mistake or sheer arrogance, a slipup that costs lives. Music pours into the lot, a bass-heavy beat that rumbles through the ground, right up into my boots. Laughter, talking, the clink of glasses. Just another Thursday night for them.

We get to the entrance. I press against the wall next to the door, the brick scraping through my jacket, and motion for the prospects to hold tight. Butcher takes the other side, barely squeezed into the space, his face hard as stone and just as unyielding.

I listen.

The bar is a loud, packed mess, buzzing with the chaotic vibe of a dive in full swing. But beneath that noise, there’s something else, a murmur from the back room, voices lower and calculating. It’s Caldwell and his crew, handling business behind those doors.

I draw my knife. The blade catches the neon glow, and for a second, I see my reflection: hard eyes, firm jaw, a face that knows it can do terrible things.

Then, I move.

As soon as I step in, chaos erupts in the room. It’s crammed tight, around thirty people squeezed into a space meant for half that. The music is pounding, the air thick with smoke, sweat, and the sharp tang of spilled beer. Faces turn as I enter, surprise giving way to confusion, then the slow realization that things are about to get ugly.

I don’t slow down.

I carve a path through the crowd, eyes locked on the door at the back, the one marked PRIVATE, leading straight to Caldwell. In my wake, people scatter, chairs screech, glasses smash, and voices rise in panic. Someone tries to grab me, a bouncer or just a fool, and I drop him with an elbow to the temple.

Behind me, Butcher and the prospects fan out, forming a perimeter, guns out but low. The message is clear: we’re not here for the bar. We’re here for what’s behind that door.

I reach the private room and kick it open.

The door explodes inward, splintering off its hinges, and I’m through before the debris hits the floor.

The room is smaller than I expected, a cramped space with a round table, a mini fridge, and walls covered in cheap wood paneling that’s seen better decades. Five men sit around the table, and the moment I burst through the door, time slows to a crawl.