Chapter 36
LUCAS
The condo was dead quiet.
I'd been sitting in the dark for over an hour, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the building settling.
My pistol rested on my thigh, finger off the trigger but ready.
Waiting was part of the job—I'd spent days in hides, watching targets through scopes, breathing shallow, heart rate controlled. But this was different.
This was personal.
Every minute that ticked by was another minute Lexi was without me, another minute these bastards had to make their next move. My jaw ached from clenching, tension coiling tighter with each passing second. I'd made the call to stay, and I stood by it. But that didn't make it easier.
The sound of voices in the hallway snapped me to attention.
Male. Young. Laughing.
I shifted in the chair, angling myself toward the door, my hand closing around the grip of my pistol. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.
Three guys walked in, mid to late twenties, all fit and good-looking in that college-athlete way—broad shoulders, easy grins, the kind of guys who'd never had to work hard for anything.
They wore jeans and polo shirts, like they'd just come from a football game or a brewery.
One carried a twelve-pack of beer, another had his phone out, replaying something that made them all laugh.
"Dude, that throw was insane," one of them said, setting the beer on the counter.
"I told you, man. Davis has an arm like a cannon."
They were so caught up in their bullshit they didn't notice me at first. Then the one closest to the living room—tall, sandy-blond hair, cocky smirk—froze mid-step. His eyes landed on me, sitting in the shadows, and the color drained from his face.
"What the fuck—"
The other two turned, their laughter dying instantly. The room went still, the air thick with tension.
I didn't move. Just sat there, my pistol resting casually on my knee, my eyes locked on them. "Close the door," I said, my voice flat.
The blond guy—the bravest of the three, or maybe just the dumbest—squared his shoulders and took a step forward. "Fuck off, man. Who the hell are you?"
I raised the pistol, not aiming yet, just letting them see it. "Close the door."
The guy on the left, dark-haired and wiry, slammed it shut without hesitation. The lock clicked. Smart.
"Sit down," I said.
None of them moved. The blond guy's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. "You can't just—"
I was on my feet before he finished the sentence, my boot connecting with his face in a blur of motion. The impact was solid, satisfying—his head snapped back, and he crumpled to the floor like a sack of bricks, out cold.
The other two scrambled back, fists raised, their eyes wide with panic and adrenaline. The dark-haired guy looked ready to charge, his body coiled like a spring. The third one, shorter and stockier with a face that screamed he'd never been in a real fight, hung back, his hands shaking.
I settled into my stance, loose but ready, my pistol still in hand. "You want to try me?" I asked, my voice calm, almost conversational. "Because I've got all day."
The dark-haired guy glanced at his buddy on the floor, then back at me. He was weighing his options, trying to decide if he could take me. Spoiler: he couldn't.
"Sit. Down," I said again.
Neither of them moved. The dark-haired guy's jaw worked, his pride warring with common sense. "What do you want?"
"I want to know where you've been today," I said. "Had a busy day, boys?"
Silence.
I sighed, shaking my head. "Wrong answer."
I moved fast, closing the distance before he could react.
My fist connected with his jaw—a clean, controlled strike that sent him sprawling into the coffee table.
It shattered under his weight, wood and glass scattering across the floor.
He groaned, blood trickling from his nose, but he didn't get up.
The last guy—the short, stocky one—stood there, eyes darting between me and his fallen buddies. His breathing was ragged, his hands trembling. I'd pegged him as the weakest from the start, the follower who went along because he didn't know how to say no.
I grinned, lowering my pistol slightly. "Looks like you're the last man standing," I said. "So, here's how this works. You can do this the hard way—" I gestured to the two unconscious bodies on the floor. "Or the easy way. Your call."
He opened his mouth, then closed it, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He was about to piss his pants, but he nodded, barely, his whole body shaking.
"Smart," I said. I grabbed his shoulder and shoved him down onto the sofa. He landed hard, his eyes squeezed shut like he was bracing for a blow. "Now. Where's the last guy? The one who likes to play aviator."
His eyes flew open. "I—I don't—"
I pressed the barrel of the pistol to his temple. "Don't lie to me."
The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this, man.
I swear. Hank—he's crazy. He had the idea for the set today.
We were supposed to be done. But last night, something snapped.
We didn't want to do it. I told him it was too much, but he doesn't listen. He never listens."
"Hank," I repeated, my voice cold. "Hank who?"
"Singleton," he gasped. "Hank Singleton."
I filed the name away, my grip tightening on the pistol. "Where is he?"
"I don't know! I swear to God, I don't know. We split up after—after the thing at the set. He said he was going to finish it. That's all he said. 'I'm going to finish it.' I don't know what he meant. Please, man, I don't know anything else."
I stared at him, searching for the lie. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead, and a dark stain was spreading across the front of his jeans. He'd pissed himself. He wasn't lying.
"Finish it," I muttered, my mind racing. Finish what? Lexi? Hannah? The production?
My phone buzzed in my pocket, the vibration cutting through the tension like a knife.
I knew, even before I pulled it out, that I was too late.