31. Justin
JUSTIN
The man wakes up screaming.
He’s tied to a chair in one of Ironreach’s forgotten warehouses, wrists bound behind him, ankles zip-tied to the legs. His face is swollen, one eye already sealed shut.
I step into his line of sight and let him see my face again.
Recognition hits immediately.
“No - what the fuck, man -”
I crouch in front of him. I’ve let him have three days of respite. Three days to recover from the near death beating I gave him at Rowan’s place, just so I can kill him all over again.
“You messed with the wrong person this time,” I say evenly. “Tell me what you were planning to do to Rowan Hale.”
He sobs.
“I don’t—”
I hit him, but it’s not hard enough to add to the damage on his face.
“There’s only one of two ways you leave this place. On foot, or in a body bag. And I won’t hesitate to wrap the plastic around you myself.”
I loom over him, menacing, showing him that I mean business.
“It was just a job, man…”
“Explain.”
“I don’t know who it was, man. I’m just hired to get things done. I got a text with the address. That’s it.”
“Who?”
“I swear to you, I don’t…” I hit him so hard, his head whiplashes to the side, his whole side deformed with the hit.
“How did he pay you?”
“Crypto, man. He paid in crypto.”
“What was the job?”
“Pick up the girl and bring her to Ironreach.”
“Then what?” I prompt.
“Then…nothing. I drive away. I don’t know what happens after that.”
“LIAR!” I roar. I know with everything in me that he’s lying.
“What. Were. You. Supposed. To Do. To. The. Girl?”
I enunciate my words in case he’s hard of hearing. Or maybe having difficult understanding the question.
The man whimpers. Pathetic.
“I want a name,” I say. “Who ordered the hit?”
He shakes his head frantically. “I swear—”
I grab his chin and force his head up. “You don’t swear to me. You answer.”
His breathing turns ragged. “I just… I just drive.”
My smile is wide.
“Wrong answer.”
I stand and nod once.
Miguel steps forward and cracks his knuckles.
The man’s eyes flick to him—and then the color drains from his face as his bladder gives out.
I click my tongue, shaking my head. Boys masquerading as men, all swagger and noise until the moment pressure hits.
Then they fold, piss-soaked and trembling, exposed for exactly what they are.
“I meant what I said. There’s only one way out of this for you. What were you paid to do to the girl?”
He shakes his head, and his whole body starts to quake. He doesn’t want to, but he clings to the small chance that maybe, just maybe, there’s hope for him yet.
“Bring her here,” he admits, barely a whisper. “Rape her and dump her body.”
I nod once, my smile cutting tight across my face. This is the truth I needed. The confirmation. The reason he’s sitting here, shaking, instead of already buried.
“But you almost killed her in her apartment,” I remind him.
“Did you see the fight the bitch p…”
My fist rams into his face without warning. He’s not helping his cause by calling Rowan names.
This is exactly why I brought him to Ironreach.
There is no version of this night where he leaves alive. No alternate ending where he gets mercy. He was hired to kill Rowan; that kind of intent only ends one way.
And whoever sent him will hear about it.
They’ll hear when the police get my carefully timed tip.
They’ll hear when his name splashes across the front page, when the story twists so it’s their man who ended up dead at Ironreach, not Rowan as they planned.
That will be my warning to them that Rowan Hale is untouchable.
This was a direct hit on her. And someone is going to pay for it with their life.
Miguel releases the restraints and steps back, letting the man crumple from the chair and hit the floor in a heap.
I don’t rush. Fear is the first thing that breaks him.
I circle once, slow, measured. His breathing turns shallow. The body knows when it’s being prepped for disposal.
“You were sent,” I say calmly. “To my city. To kill the girl. My girl.”
His head jerks up. I see the moment he realizes exactly who he messed with.
I crouch beside him and seize his jaw, my grip crushing as I force his mouth open. He whimpers, the sound breaking when my thumb drives up beneath his chin, digging hard into the soft flesh under his tongue. His teeth click together, bone grinding as panic steals his breath.
I slam his head back against the concrete. The sound is wet. Final-sounding. He gasps, eyes rolling, saliva stringing from his mouth. I don’t give him time to recover.
My fist connects with his ribs—once, twice—until something gives with a dull, sickening crack. He screams then. High and broken. A man realizing his body is no longer loyal to him.
I feel it in my own hands. The vibration of damage. The certainty. This is the point of no return.
I wrap my forearm around his throat and pull his head backward. I apply just enough pressure to close the airway. His feet kick uselessly. His hands claw at nothing. His face turns red, then purple, eyes bulging, veins standing out like wires pulled too tight.
When I release him, he collapses against the ground hacking, sucking in air like it’s the most precious commodity on earth. He sobs. I let him. Tears don’t move me.
I drive my knee into his thigh. The femur cracks clean, the sound sharp and unmistakable. He howls, body arching, then slumps when the pain overwhelms his ability to process it.
I watch him fold and I unleash my rage.
I lean in close, my mouth near his ear. “Here’s the part you don’t understand,” I tell him quietly. “This was always how this ended. The moment you accepted the job. You just didn’t know it yet.”
I choke him again—longer this time. Until his struggles slow. Until his eyes glaze. Until his body starts to go limp in that dangerous way where the line blurs.
I feel it then. The weight of it. The knowledge that I’m no longer stopping a monster—I am one. And I won’t stop at anything to protect what’s mine.
When I finally let him fall forward, his chest is not moving. Blood runs from his nose and mouth, pooling on the concrete. His jaw hangs at the wrong angle. One eye won’t close.
I step back.
The room is quiet again.
The aftermath settles fast. The body is ruined. Not artful or dramatic. It’s just broken. I wipe my hands on a towel then stuff it into my pocket.
Someone will find him.
And whoever sent him will read it and understand something vital:
Rowan Hale is protected.
And I am not a man you get a second chance with.
I walk out of Ironreach knowing exactly what I’ve become.
And knowing I would do it all over again. For her.
My phone is in my hand before I step out of the warehouse.
I don’t stop to think about it. This needs to move, and the only person who can help me expedite my enquiries is Silas. The same way that universities keep Goliath on call for problems they don’t want traced back to them, I have one number I use when speed matters more than optics.
He answers on the first ring.
“Justin. To what do I owe the misfortune of a call so late in the afternoon?”
I roll my eyes, because he can’t see it and yet he deserves it.
Silas Mercer is my go-to when I need results. He doesn’t waste time, doesn’t ask unnecessary questions, and doesn’t pretend there are lines he’s not willing to cross. He’s efficient, focused, and entirely business-minded.
But he still enjoys needling me when he can.
And I let him—because if he ever stopped, that’s when I’d worry.
“That file you secured,” I say. “You kept a copy?”
“You know I did.”
“I need a full deep dive on William Scott-Evans and Marcus Delaney. Everything you can find.”
There’s a brief pause. “Outside of Goliath?” he asks.
“Yes. Deeper than that. There’s also a third man involved; he may or may not still be in the picture, but he was their third wheel ten years ago.”
Another beat. I can hear him thinking. “I didn’t come across anything pointing to a third man.”
“He’s there,” I say flatly. “You didn’t miss him—he’s buried. Dig again. I want everything on all three of them. Financials, movements, connections. Anything that doesn’t line up. Anything I can use against them.”
“And you want this when?”
“I needed it yesterday,” I say. “We’ll meet in person when you’re done.”
The line goes quiet for a second.
Then, “Understood.”