Chapter 37
Aidan
Hunting.
It sits in my blood hot, eager. The urge to kill hasn’t been sated in a while. Too long. Eight weeks ago, when I put a man in the ground who got too close to her. He wasn’t innocent. They never are. He was hunting too, but for someone he thought was weak and alone.
She wasn’t alone.
She is never alone.
I slam my foot harder on the accelerator, heading for the Industrial park where Callan saw Jack pull in.
I take the turn hard, and the tyres dig in, gripping the hot tarmac.
The estate opens up around me in a spread of low units, rusted fencing, stacked pallets, old signs, and dead corners.
Trade places. Storage. Shit businesses no one looks at twice.
Exactly the kind of place a man like Jack uses because nobody sees anything in places like this. Nobody cares enough.
I spot the sign Callan mentioned and slow down without meaning to. Refrigeration Services. The board is faded. The shutters are half-scratched with old paint marks. One van bay. One side door. A wire fence runs along the boundary with a sliding gate left half open.
This is stupid on my own.
I know it. I don’t care.
I park two units down behind a transit with a broken rear light and reach for the glove compartment.
Opening it, I pull out a gun, stash it in the back of my jeans and get out.
Heat hits my face. The whole place hums with summer, machinery and far-off traffic from the ring road.
Nothing moves in the yard. No workers. No chatter.
No radio through an open bay. Too quiet.
I cut through the gap between units and come at the yard from the blind side, keeping low beside a stack of blue plastic drums. The gravel crunches under my boots no matter how careful I am, so I stop pretending silence is possible and focus on speed.
The white van sits backed into the bay.
My pulse kicks.
I scan the windows first. Filthy glass. No movement behind it. The side door has a keypad entry, but the main shutter is down only three quarters, leaving enough space for a man to duck under if he wants to risk losing his head on the metal lip. I move to the van instead.
Plain exterior. No company name.
My hand goes to the grip of the gun at my back.
Every instinct in me is screaming in anticipation.
I edge towards the shutter and listen.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No voices. No scrape of tools. Just the distant whine of traffic and the thud of my own blood in my ears. I lower myself and duck under the shutter.
The warehouse is dim after the glare outside. I pause to let my eyes adjust.
Shelving units rise up in rows to my left, packed with boxes, coils of tubing, and old compressor parts.
To the right, two industrial fridges stand against the wall, doors hanging open, dead and gutted.
Dust sits on everything thick enough to tell me this place is a shell, not a functioning business.
A front.
I draw the gun and keep it low at my thigh as I move deeper inside.
The air is warmer in here than it should be. Stale. Still. The kind of still that says someone has been waiting for noise.
A metal office box sits at the back of the unit, built on a raised platform with stairs leading up to it.
I stop at the base of the stairs and listen again.
A drip somewhere in the back. The low electric hum of an ancient freezer unit that still has some life in it. Nothing else.
Too clean.
My thumb brushes the safety. I hate this already because Jack is never this careless. If Callan found him, it is because Jack allowed it. Which means this place is either abandoned, rigged, or bait.
Probably all three.
I take the stairs anyway.
Each step gives a dull metallic knock under my weight. I keep the gun up now, two hands, aiming at the office door. The frosted glass panel is yellowed with age. Light cuts through one corner where the blind inside is bent.
I shove the door open.
Empty.
A battered desk. Filing cabinets. Two dead monitors. One office chair tipped on its side. Papers are scattered over the floor like someone wanted this to look hurried. My jaw clenches.
I clear the room fast. Desk. Corner. Cupboard. Nothing living. No Jack. No watcher with a knife waiting to spring.
I sweep the room again, slower this time.
The filing cabinet nearest the wall has one drawer slightly open.
A cheap disposable cup sits by the dead monitor, ring of dried brown at the bottom.
Fresh enough that it hasn’t turned to dust. The papers on the floor are wrong.
Too deliberate. Too spread out. A theatre set made by someone who enjoys the reveal.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I nearly ignore it. Then I think better of it and back out of the office, eyes on the room, gun up, until I reach the top of the stairs and have a better angle on the warehouse floor.
Ethan.
I answer in a low voice. “What?”
“Tell me you didn’t go in.”
I look at the empty warehouse and smile. “I went in.”
A vicious silence greets that.
Then, “Aidan.”
“Don’t start.”
“Get out.”
“There’s no one here.”
“That’s worse.”
He’s right. It is worse. It means that someone could come in and get the jump on me instead of the other way around.
But I’m here now, and there are more areas to search. Jack isn’t getting away with this shit. Not anymore. “I’ll see you later.” I hang up and put my phone on silent before shoving it back into my pocket.
I stop at the top of the stairs and listen again.
Nothing.
That is wrong.
Even empty places make noise. Pipes tick. Buildings settle. Somewhere, something always hums. This place feels held. Intentional.
I lift the gun and take the first step.
The second.
A hard crack splits the air.
Pain rips through my side, hot and brutal, and my shoulder slams into the stair rail. My gun goes off into the ceiling. Metal rings. Dust drops. I hit the next step on one knee and tumble down the rest of the metal stairs.
“Fuck,” I groan as I hit the bottom.
Warmth pours down my side.
It’s a graze. Not deep enough to drop me completely.
I clamp my hand over it and breathe. I get to my knees, gun still in my hand, and force myself to my feet.
I scan the shadows for the shooter as blood soaks through my shirt. The warehouse is still silent except for the ringing in my ears from my own gunshot.
A noise snaps behind one of the shelving units to my left.
I fire without thinking. The bullet sparks off metal. The figure drops behind cover.
“Jack,” I spit out, my voice hoarse.
No answer.
Keeping the gun raised, my free hand pressed against the wound. The blood is warm and sticky between my fingers, but I can still move. That’s all that matters.
Another shot cracks the air. This one hits the wall behind me with a dull thunk.
I move, throwing myself behind the nearest shelving unit as another round tears through the air where my head just was.
Steel rattles above me. A box drops, bursts open, and old fittings scatter across the concrete.
He is enjoying this.
The realisation lands clean and cold. He could have put that first bullet through my throat. Instead, he clips me. Makes me move. Makes me bleed.
My hand presses harder into my side. It burns like fire, but it’s not fatal. It’s barely even a wound. I pull my hand away and push down the pain.
I drag in a breath and listen.
Nothing from the office. Nothing from the shutter.
He is in here with me.
I crouch lower and force my breathing under control. My fingers tighten around the gun. I angle my head enough to check the gap beneath the shelving.
Another shot is fired off, but this time it’s a different sound. A ping. Suppressed.
“Two shooters?” I mutter, ducking, but this shot goes nowhere near me.
“Ethan,” I grit out. He followed me and is swooping in to save me. Fucker. I don’t need anyone to save me.
Then three shots, all aimed at me, fly over my head, too close for fucking comfort. I duck as someone steps out from behind a massive, yellowing chest freezer that has seen better days.
Swivelling, I level my gun.
“Stay down,” Jack says, as he fires off another suppressed round and then crouches behind a concrete column. He glares at me as I take aim at him, a smirk curving my lips. “Don’t,” he says. “I’m not the one you’re after.”
Before I can reply with a cutting remark about what a fucking liar he is, the automatic fire that answers him is deafening. A full burst, indiscriminate, shredding the shelving above both of us. Metal screams. Boxes explode. I hit the floor and press my back against the unit as debris rains down.
“Who the fuck is shooting at us?” I grit out, pissed off enough at this fucking cunt to at least try to find out from the other person getting shot at, even if it is Jack.
His eyes meet mine across the warehouse, and the look on his face turns my blood to ice.
Book 2: Twisted Love - end of June 2026: Twisted Love