Chapter 21 #2
Beau doesn't answer. He just turns, reaches into the wall-mounted weapons case, and tosses him a compact Glock like he is handing over a pack of gum.
Travis catches it with both hands and stares down at the pistol like it is a bomb. “Cool. Great. Love that for me. Definitely ready for this.”
“Keep the safety on,” Beau warns, checking his own gear. “You panic and you will shoot yourself.”
Travis groans and flips the gun over awkwardly. “Please tell me I at least get a bulletproof vest?”
Beau shrugs. “Sure. But with your face, you’re probably getting shot in the head.”
Travis freezes. “Why would you say that?”
Beau tilts his head slightly. “Accuracy.”
I stand and walk past them, adjusting the holster at my side until it clicks snugly into place.
“Try not to miss,” I tell Travis. “And maybe don’t die.”
Travis blinks. “Seriously? That’s the game plan?”
Beau slings a coat over one shoulder, brushing invisible lint off the lapel. “If you’re lucky, they’ll shoot Seth first. He’s prettier.”
“Gee, thanks,” I mutter.
Travis points at both of us, exasperated. “I hate how casually you say things like that.”
“He’s right,” I say. “If they spot us, don’t try to be a hero. Just get to the car.”
Beau turns back toward the main hallway. “Honestly, you might want to just stay in the car anyway.”
Travis exhales. “I love being excluded.”
Beau looks at me as he grabs his keys. His expression finally sobers. “You sure you’re ready?”
No.
“Yes.”
Because it doesn’t matter if I am ready.
Pain doesn’t matter. Timing doesn’t matter. The odds don’t matter.
Only Brooke does.
I check the pistol’s chamber, slide a full clip into place, and tuck the weapon under my jacket.
“Let’s go.”
The drive to Black Ridge cuts through forest and shadow, the road narrowing until the trees press in close. Headlights skim bark and fog. The bass from somewhere far ahead pulses faintly through the night, a low thud you feel more than hear.
Beau drives with one hand on the wheel, relaxed, eyes forward. Travis sits behind us, fidgeting with the gun like it might bite him.
“Either of you ever consider therapy?” Travis asks.
Beau doesn’t look at him. “I have a bunker.”
“That’s not therapy.”
“It is for me.”
I close my eyes for a second, jaw tight. The dream keeps trying to crawl back in. I shove it down. There will be time for grief later. Right now, there’s work to do.
Travis exhales hard. “So… what’s my role here?”
“Don’t die,” Beau says.
Travis glances at the gun in his hands. “I haven’t done this before.”
Beau finally turns, reaches back, and takes the weapon from him. He checks it one-handed, smooth and fast, the kind of movement that comes from muscle memory.
“Well,” Beau slides the magazine in and racking the slide with his thumb, “there’s a first time for everything. But I don’t want you shooting your dick off.”
He hands it back.
Travis stares at the gun, then at Beau. “I’m sorry. I’m not a psycho. I’ve never killed anyone.”
Beau shrugs. “Good. Try to keep it that way.”
The club sits at the edge of the lot, lit up in red. The parking area is packed with SUVs and luxury sedans.
Men gather near the entrance in fitted jackets, cigarettes glowing between their fingers.
Black Ridge.
A place built to swallow guilt and spit out profit. Money moves fast inside those walls. Flesh moves faster.
Beau pulls into a spot under a flickering security light.
“Here we go,” he kills the engine.
Travis stares up at the building like it might bite him. “So… I’m staying here, right?”
Beau claps him on the shoulder. “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said in two days.”
“You sure you don’t need backup?”
“If we do,” I say, “it’s already too late.”
I check my gun, then step into the night. The air smells like oil, cologne, and cigarette ash. Music from inside thuds like a heartbeat.
The bouncer spots me the second I step into range. His eyes pause, recognition settling in without surprise. He glances at Beau, then back at me. No greeting follows. No questions. No hands come up to search us.
He opens the door and steps aside.
Heat rushes out to meet us, layered with perfume, sweat, liquor, and something sour underneath it all. The room is packed wall to wall, bodies pressed together. Strobe lights tear through the dark, bouncing off mirrored walls and catching fragments of movement that never fully settle.
Men in tailored suits lounge in red velvet booths, watches flashing at their wrists as they lift crystal tumblers. Women move through the space around them, skin glittering under the lights. Heels tower. Smiles stay fixed. Their eyes look empty, trained to look past everything happening to them.
I keep walking.
Beau veers toward a booth tucked back in the shadows, partially walled off, ropes marking a line that doesn’t need enforcing. We slide in. From here, I have a clear view of the stage, the bar, the entrance, and the staircase that leads to the second floor. Dante’s office will be up there.
Beau looks like he belongs. Relaxed posture. Lazy smile. He tosses hundred-dollar bills onto the stage like confetti, each one fluttering to the floor beneath gyrating legs and flashing lights.
A server in fishnets and smudged lipstick drifts over. Beau orders a whiskey. I don’t care what mine is. I take one sip and set it down.
My focus stays up.
I don't look at the stage. I can’t. I have been too close to what places like this actually are to pretend it is entertainment. Every flash of skin feels like a warning. Every smile feels like a threat.
“Beau,” I mutter. “Focus.”
“I am,” he replies, eyes still forward. “I multitask.”
He pulls a pen from his pocket, uncaps it, and writes something on a crisp bill before sliding it across the edge of the stage.
It stops at the feet of a girl in red heels and fishnets.
Her makeup is flawless. Her eyes are not.
Bruises shadow the inside of her thighs. She bends, reads the bill, and freezes.
Beau doesn't look away. “Go to the back. Call the number. Tell him Beau sent you.”
She hesitates. Swallows. Then nods once and disappears into the crowd like smoke.
“That your number?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Rescue line. Safe house in Portland. First contact gets her out.”
Movement near the bar catches my attention.
The bouncer from the door stands rigid beside a bald man in a slate gray suit. Wired into something. The man presses two fingers to his earpiece and glances up.
The bouncer follows his line of sight.
So do I.
The upper hallway glows with low gold light, throwing long shadows across velvet curtains. Dante stands at the center of it, leaning against the railing. Rings catch the light as he moves. His face is calm.
His gaze finds mine.
And stays there.
I slide my hand beneath the table, fingers closing around cold metal.
“Beau, get ready.”
He finishes his drink in one swallow, sets the glass down with a soft click, and rolls his knuckles.
“I stay ready.”
The crowd shifts. Security tightens. Someone moves toward the stairs.
I stand slowly, one hand still inside my jacket. Beau slides out of the booth, Glock already in hand.
“Here we fucking go.”