Chapter 43 Koa
Koa
The warehouse is dead quiet.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet—not the silence of an empty building settling into night. This is the quiet that comes after violence, after screaming stops and bodies drop. The kind that makes your instincts scream danger even when you can’t see the threat yet.
No engines humming in the distance. No guards smoking outside, their voices carrying on the wind. Just the rattle of loose tin above me, shaking in the breeze like bones in a coffin.
I kill the headlights and coast the Charger the last few feet, letting momentum carry me to a stop. The engine ticks as it cools, the sound too loud in the silence. When I open the door, the air hits me—thick and metallic, coating the back of my throat like I’ve been sucking on pennies.
Iron. Copper. Gunpowder.
Blood. Fresh blood.
I’ve smelled it enough times to know the difference between old and new, between a single body and multiple casualties. This is recent. Within the hour. Maybe less.
Inside, the concrete floor glistens dark and wet under the flicker of a dying bulb.
The light strobes—on, off, on—casting everything in harsh shadows and sickly yellow illumination.
My boots make wet sounds as I walk, each step punctuated by the squelch of blood spreading across the floor in slow, creeping pools.
Vincent’s right-hand man—Marco—lies half-propped against the far wall, one hand pressed uselessly to the hole in his gut.
His shirt is soaked black, blood pooling around him in an expanding circle that’s already starting to congeal at the edges.
He’s still breathing, somehow. Shallow, rattling breaths that sound like they hurt, like every inhale is dragging broken glass through his lungs.
I crouch down in front of him, keeping my expression neutral. Steady. Not showing the calculation running through my head—how long he has, what he might know, whether he’s worth saving or just wasting the oxygen he’s stealing.
“Marco.”
The man coughs, blood flecking his teeth and lips. His eyes struggle to focus on me, pupils blown wide with shock and pain. “You... shouldn’t be here, Koa.” Another wet cough that sounds like it’s tearing something inside. “Run.”
I ignore the advice. “Where is he?”
Marco’s head lolls back against the wall, the movement sluggish and uncoordinated. His skin is gray, lips turning blue. “Dead.” The word comes out as barely a whisper. Another cough, weaker this time. “He’s dead.”
My jaw tightens. For a second, I don’t believe it—not because Vincent didn’t deserve to die, not because I’m mourning the bastard.
But because him dying like this, without me there, without me getting to watch the light leave his eyes.
.. it means the game ended without me finishing it.
It means someone else got to win, got to claim the kill that should have been mine after everything he put me through.
Marco’s eyes flick over my shoulder, sudden fear cutting through the pain-fog. His voice cracks with genuine terror. “Run.”
A single gunshot answers him.
The back of his skull explodes against the concrete wall, painting it with brain matter and bone fragments. Red and pink and white splatter. His body slumps sideways, the light leaving his eyes between one breath and the next, his final exhale rattling out wet and final.
I don’t flinch. Don’t turn around yet. Just watch Marco’s corpse settle, cataloging the entry wound, the spray pattern, the way his fingers are still twitching with residual nerve impulses. Give it ten seconds and he’ll be completely still.
The echo of the gunshot drags through the rafters, bouncing off steel and concrete. Then another sound joins it—slow, deliberate clapping that echoes with theatrical precision.
I stand slowly, turning to face the source. My hand drifts instinctively toward the gun tucked into my waistband, fingers itching.
Gilbert Kane walks out of the shadows like he’s taking a stage, like he’s the star of some fucked-up play and we’re all just extras.
He’s wearing a gray suit—expensive, tailored, not a wrinkle in sight. Clean shoes. And not a single drop of blood on him, despite the carnage surrounding us, despite the fact that he just executed a man without breaking stride. The gun in his hand still smokes, barrel pointed casually at the floor.
“Prideful,” he says, his voice low. He takes another step closer, studying me like I’m a specimen under glass. “Arrogant. Confident. Cocky.” A smirk touches his lips. “All the things a good soldier shouldn’t be.”
I straighten, wiping a streak of Marco’s blood from my cheek with my thumb. The motion is deliberate, unhurried. I make sure he sees me do it. “You’ve been keeping notes?”
“Oh, I’ve been keeping records.” Gilbert paces, circling me like a predator sizing up prey. Except I’m not prey—I never have been. “Let’s see... two dead in Crestview. One buried alive outside West Pointe. That poor kid you strung up under the overpass—what was his name? Ryder, wasn’t it?”
I don’t blink. Don’t react. Because giving him a reaction is giving him power, and I learned a long time ago that power is the only currency that matters.
Ryder. Yeah, I remember him. Remember the way he begged, promised he’d keep his mouth shut about the shipment he saw. I remember not believing him. I remember the sound his neck made when the rope went taut.
Gilbert tilts his head, watching my face for something he won’t find. “No remorse. Good. I’d hate to think Vincent wasted all that molding.”
Something in me snaps. Something that’s been coiled tight since I walked in here, since I smelled the blood, since I realized Vincent died without me getting my hands on him.
“Now, you’re going to do something for me.”
“He didn’t mold shit,” I say with a nonchalant shrug. “And I’m not anyone’s bitch. Not his. Not yours.”
Gilbert stops circling, turning to face me fully. There’s interest in his eyes now, curiosity mixed with something darker. “Is that so? You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”
“What is it?”
“Your stepbrother.”
“You want your Reaper?” I take a step closer, watching his men shift in the shadows. I can count at least four of them, maybe five. “Go fetch him yourself.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. Gilbert’s expression doesn’t change, but I can see the calculation behind his eyes, the way he’s reassessing me. Deciding whether I’m brave or just stupid.
Then he laughs. Actually laughs, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. “You’ve got balls, boy. I’ll give you that.”
“I’ve got a lot more than that.”
Gilbert’s smile fades. “Do you? Because from where I’m standing, you’ve got nothing. No family. No protection. No leverage.” He takes a step closer, and I can smell his cologne now—expensive, subtle. “Vincent’s dead. His empire is mine. And you? You’re just a stray dog looking for a new master.”
“Fuck you.” The words come out flat, final.
“Why are you even here?” Gilbert asks, his voice turning conversational like we’re discussing the weather. “Looking for Vincent? Hoping to finally put a bullet in daddy dearest?”
The mockery in his tone makes my hands clench into fists. He sees it and smiles wider.
“Or maybe you’re here for answers. Want to know who gave the order, who pulled the trigger, who ended your sad little revenge fantasy before you could.”
I move without thinking, closing the distance between us in two strides. My fist connects with his jaw before his men can react, the impact sending pain shooting up my arm. His head snaps to the side, blood appearing at the corner of his mouth.
But he’s laughing. Actually laughing as he straightens, wiping the blood away with his thumb. “There it is. There’s the monster Vincent made.”
Then everything happens at once.
His men rush me from the shadows—four of them, maybe five, I lose count as the first one crashes into my side.
I throw an elbow back, feel it connect with something soft.
Someone grunts. Another set of hands grabs my arm, and I twist, breaking the grip, throwing a punch that catches someone in the throat.
They’re good, though. Trained. Not like Vincent’s usual thugs who rely on intimidation and numbers. These guys know how to fight, how to work as a unit.
One of them gets behind me, arm wrapping around my throat in a chokehold. I throw my head back, feel the satisfying crunch of his nose breaking. His grip loosens and I spin, driving my knee into his gut.
But there are too many. A fist catches me in the kidney, and I stumble, legs going weak. Another blow to the back of my head makes my vision blur, stars exploding across my sight.
I keep fighting. Keep swinging even as they drag me down, even as my knees hit the concrete. I catch one of them in the face, feel teeth give way under my knuckles. Another in the ribs, hard enough to hear something crack.
But they’re overwhelming me, piling on, and my movements are getting slower, sloppier. One of them has my arm twisted behind my back at an angle that makes my shoulder scream. Another has his knee in my spine, pressing down.
“Enough,” Gilbert says calmly, and they freeze.
I’m breathing hard, blood running into my eyes from a cut somewhere on my forehead. My mouth tastes like copper. Everything hurts in that immediate, sharp way that means I’m going to feel this for days.
Gilbert crouches down in front of me, his suit somehow still immaculate. “You fight well. Vincent taught you that much, at least.”
“Fuck—” I start, but one of his men drives a fist into my gut, forcing the air out of my lungs.
Gilbert reaches into his jacket and pulls something out. A syringe. The liquid inside is clear, catching the flickering light.
My eyes widen. I start fighting again, thrashing against the hands holding me, but they’ve got me pinned. One of them grabs my jaw, forcing my head still, and I see Gilbert’s face swim into focus above me.
“This would have been easier if you’d just listened,” he says almost regretfully. “And didn’t your sweet old step daddy do this to you?”
The needle pierces my neck, sharp and burning. I feel the plunger depress, feel whatever chemical cocktail they’ve loaded flooding into my bloodstream. It burns, spreading like fire through my veins.
“No—” The word comes out slurred.
“Yes,” Gilbert says, standing. “Unfortunately.”
My vision starts to blur at the edges, darkness creeping in. But I’m still fighting, still trying to break free even as my muscles start to go slack. They drag me across the floor—I can feel the blood and grime soaking through my jeans—and there’s the scrape of metal on concrete.
A chair.
They’re lifting me, shoving me into it. I try to swing at them, but my arms are heavy, uncoordinated. The drug is working fast, too fast. My head lolls forward and someone yanks it back by my hair.
Rope bites into my wrists, then my ankles. They’re tying me down, securing me to the chair, and I can’t stop them. Can’t do anything but sit here as the world goes soft and sideways.
“There we go,” one of them mutters.
I force my eyes open, try to focus. Gilbert is watching from a few feet away, smoking a cigarette like this is all just mildly interesting to him.
“You know what your problem is, Koa?” he asks, exhaling smoke. “You think being dangerous makes you free. But violence is just another kind of cage.”
I try to respond, but my tongue is thick in my mouth. The words won’t form.
“Sleep it off,” Gilbert says. “When you wake up, maybe you’ll be more reasonable.”
He turns to leave, his men following like shadows. The warehouse door groans open, letting in a blast of cold air and rain.
I watch them go through half-closed eyes, and then I’m alone. Just me and Marco’s corpse and the dying light.
I try to move, to test the ropes, but even that small motion is too much. The chair tilts—I realize too late that I’m leaning too far forward—and then I’m falling.
The impact is brutal. My face hits the concrete floor hard enough that I taste blood immediately, feel my cheekbone crack against the ground.
The chair lands on top of me, my weight driving it down, and I’m trapped.
Face crushed against the blood-slick floor, arms twisted behind me at an impossible angle, legs still tied to the chair.
I can’t breathe right. Can’t move. Can barely think through the fog settling over my brain.
From somewhere far away, I hear Gilbert’s laughter echoing through the warehouse, rich and amused.
“Goodnight, Koa.”
The door slams shut.
And I’m left there in the dark, face pressed into concrete and blood, Vincent’s corpse somewhere in the shadows, and the realization settling over me like a shroud that I’ve finally met someone more dangerous than the monster who made me.
The light flickers one more time, then dies completely.
Darkness swallows everything.