PART 6
I bought a few things. a roll of heavyduty plastic sheeting. A box of industrial strength zip ties, a staple gun and a hammer, a heavy claw style framing hammer. I waited in my hand. It felt balanced. Solid, I paid with cash. The sleepy teenager at the register didn’t even look up from his phone. “Have a good night,” he mumbled.
“It’s going to be a long one,” I said. I drove back toward the city. I knew where the Wolf Pack would be on Friday nights. After a big win, and to them, silencing Tessa was a win. They always went to the same place, the Velvet Lounge, a high-end private club downtown that Victor owned. They would be there drinking expensive scotch, patting each other on the back, celebrating their brutality.
I wasn’t going to storm the club. That would be suicide. Seven targets plus security plus Victor. No, you don’t hunt a pack of wolves by running into the middle of the den. You wait on the perimeter. You wait for the straggler. I parked my truck two blocks away in the shadows of an alley.
I pulled my hood up and walked toward the club. I found a spot across the street, tucked into the doorway of a closed bakery. I watched the entrance. An hour passed, then two. At 2:45 a.m., the door opened. Laughter spilled out onto the street. Dominic and Grant walked out first, loud and stumbling. Then came the others.
They were high on adrenaline and liquor, but one was trailing behind. Mason. He wasn’t laughing. He looked sick. He walked slightly apart from the group, checking his phone, looking over his shoulder. He waved off the offer of a ride in the limo. I’m going to walk a bit, clear my head, I heard him say. I’ll grab a cab later. Suit yourself, baby brother.
Dominic cheered. Don’t have nightmares. The limo pulled away with the six brothers. Mason stood alone on the sidewalk. He lit a cigarette, his hand shaking so badly he dropped the lighter twice. He started walking down Fourth Street, heading toward the quieter part of town. Perfect. I moved out of the shadows. I didn’t run.
I walked with a silent rolling gate that made no sound on the pavement. I closed the distance. 50 yard, 30 yard, 10. He stopped at a corner, waiting for the light to change. There were no cars, just him and the ghosts he was trying to drink away. I stepped up right behind him. I could smell the expensive scotch sweating out of his pores.
I leaned in close, my lips almost touching his ear. 31. I whispered. Mason froze. He went rigid as a statue. The cigarette fell from his fingers. He slowly turned his head. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, filled with a primal terror. He recognized me instantly. Hunter, he stammered. I I didn’t get in the alley, I said. I didn’t show a weapon. I didn’t have to.
The look in my eyes was the weapon. No, I can’t. I I grabbed his wrist. I didn’t squeeze hard, just enough to let him feel the pressure point. I twisted. he gasped, dropping to one knee. We need to talk about your sister, I said softly. And you’re going to tell me everything or I’m going to start counting.
Mason looked around for help, but the street was empty. He looked at me and he saw his death. He nodded, tears instantly springing to his eyes. I pulled him into the darkness of the alley. The hunt had officially begun. The alley was narrow, smelling of wet cardboard and old grease.
Mason was shaking so violently his teeth were actually chattering. A sound like dry bones clicking together in the dark. I pushed him against the brick wall. I didn’t slam him. I just applied pressure until he had nowhere to go but backward. Please, Mason whimpered, his hands up in a surrender that meant nothing. Hunter, you don’t understand. I had to. He made me.
Who made you? I asked, my voice flat. Your father? Yes, Victor. You know how he is. If I didn’t hold her legs, he would have done the same to me. I looked at him, really looked at him. He was 22 years old. He wore a watch that cost more than my truck. He had never worked a day in his life, never fought for anything, never bled for anything.
And he thought fear was an excuse for monstrosity. You held her legs. I repeated. You felt her fighting. You heard her begging you. Mason, help me. That’s what she said, right? Mason flinched. I I tried to look away. That doesn’t matter, I said. You were there. You were part of the equation. I pulled a zip tie from my pocket.
The sound of the plastic ratcheting shut around his wrists was loud in the quiet alley. I didn’t bind his hands behind his back. I bound them in front of him. It made him feel like he still had some control, which would make him talk faster. Where is the warehouse? I asked, “What warehouse?” He played dumb. A reflex.
I took the hammer out of my belt loop. I didn’t raise it. I just let the heavy steel head rest in my palm. Mason’s eyes locked onto it. He knew exactly what this hammer meant. He had seen one just like it earlier that night. Warehouse 4, he blurted out. At the docks, the south terminal. That’s where the shipment is.
What’s in the shipment? guns, mostly modified ARs, and some military surplus. We we acquired they’re shipping out to a buyer in Sudan on Tuesday. And the others, where are they right now? They went to Dominic’s penthouse. There, they’re continuing the party. I nodded. Information acquired, but I wasn’t done with Mason.
He was my message in a bottle. You’re going to do something for me, Mason. You’re going to disappear. What? If you go back to them now, they’ll know I got to you. They’ll know I know and they’ll circle the wagons. I need them paranoid. I need them wondering. I dragged him to my truck. I didn’t throw him in the trunk.
That’s amateur hour. I put him in the passenger seat and engaged the child lock. I buckled him in. We’re going for a ride. I said I drove him 20 m out of town to an old abandoned grain silo I had scouted years ago for training exercises. It was isolated, soundproof, and terrifying at night. I walked him inside.
The space was vast, and echoed with every step. I zip tied him to a support beam. I gave him a bottle of water. I didn’t beat him. I didn’t touch him. You stay here, I said. You think about what you did. You think about the number 31. You’re leaving me here. He cried. I’ll freeze. It’s 50°. I said, “You’ll be uncomfortable, but you’ll live.” Tessa might not.
So, you sit here and pray she wakes up because if she dies, I come back and I won’t bring water next time. I left him screaming into the darkness and drove back to the city. Now, the real work began. I parked a block away from Dominic’s penthouse building. It was a fortress of glass and steel, the kind of place bought with blood money. I couldn’t get in. Not yet.
But I could see in. I set up in a parking garage across the street on the top level. I pulled out my spotting scope. Through the floor to ceiling windows of the penthouse, I could see them. The Wolf Pack. Dominic was pacing a drink in his hand. He looked angry. He was probably calling Mason’s phone. Evan and Felix were sitting on the couch laughing at something on the TV.
Grant was doing lines of something white off the coffee table. Ian and Kyle were arm wrestling on the kitchen island. They looked so comfortable, so safe. I took out my phone. I had cloned Mason’s SIM card before I left him at the silo. A little trick a contact and intel taught me.
I sent a text from Mason to the group chat. Message. I can’t do this anymore. I’m going to the cops. Don’t look for me. I watched through the scope. The reaction was instant. Dominic checked his phone. He froze. He showed the phone to Evan. The laughter stopped. Grant wiped the powder off the table in a panic. The arm wrestling ended.
They started arguing. I could see Dominic shouting, pointing at the door. He was sending people out to look for Mason. Chaos. Panic is the enemy of organization. When people panic, they make mistakes. They get sloppy. I packed up my scope. I knew their next move. If they thought Mason was going to the cops, they would try to scrub the evidence.
They would go to warehouse 4 to move the guns before the police arrived. They were doing my work for me. They were gathering all the evidence in one place. I drove to the docks. The south terminal was a maze of shipping containers, rust, and shadows. It was the kind of place where bad things happened and nobody saw. I parked my truck a mile away and moved in on foot.
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I was wearing my full kit now. Black tactical pants, boots, gloves, and a balaclava. I didn’t have a rifle, but I had my knife, my hammer, and the darkness. I found warehouse 4. There were two black SUVs parked outside. Victor’s men. I climbed up the side of the adjacent building, moving silently across the corrugated metal roof until I was looking down through a skylight into the warehouse. Below me, I saw Victor.
He was there personally, shouting orders. Move it all now. Victor yelled. If that idiot boy talks to the police, they’ll be here by morning. Burn the paperwork. Load the crates into the truck. Dominic and Evan were there sweating, hauling heavy wooden crates. I knew Mason was weak. Dominic spat. We should have handled him.
