Chapter 39 #2
Half the names Travis pulls up aren't professionals.
They are amateurs who have managed to kill someone once and decide that qualifies them to start calling themselves hunters.
A few are repeat offenders who have been caught before and somehow slip through the system again.
Most of them have records thick enough to choke a prosecutor and are dumb enough to leave evidence behind every time they pull the trigger.
They aren't careful. They aren't disciplined.
Some of them have not even bothered to hide their last body.
It almost feels insulting.
Two million dollars on my head and this is the talent pool she pulls from.
Not a single legitimate hitman in sight.
Travis is combing through the Collective’s archived security footage when he finds the first one worth mentioning. He rewinds the clip and turns the laptop so Beau and I can see the screen.
The man wanders through the frame like the cameras don't exist. Crooked grin, cheap leather jacket hanging off his shoulders, and a lazy uneven walk that looks less like an injury and more like a man who has never bothered learning how to move with control.
Professional killers scan their surroundings.
This idiot looks like he would forget his own name if someone doesn't remind him.
I lean closer to the screen and study his face for another second.
His name is Don.
Joe is always with him.
Don and Joe aren't professionals. They come as a pair.
The Collective uses men like them when they want bodies without investing real resources.
They are sloppy and impulsive, violent in ways that feel personal instead of controlled.
They move between perimeter work, intimidation jobs, and cleanup when someone else doesn't want blood directly on their hands.
Both of them were seen with Grant.
They're close enough to feel important and close enough to think they are untouchable.
They aren't.
We don't hunt them. We let them come to us.
Brooke goes out alone with no disguise and no visible backup. She chooses a public place with lights on and people everywhere. She doesn't act unaware. She moves through the world like she has not already been marked.
Don notices Brooke first. Joe follows his gaze. They trail her from a nightclub near the edge of town. Joe stares too long. Don never checks his mirrors. They peel off behind a liquor store, laughing like the night already belongs to them.
Their dumbasses never even check the car.
They climb in, still talking, still laughing.
I'm already in the back seat.
Joe shuts the passenger door and reaches down to the floorboard, pulling up a small bottle and a rag. He turns them in his hands while Don leans back in the driver’s seat, watching the alley.
“That’s her,” Don says.
They keep talking not knowing I am three feet behind them. Don complains about the payout being split. Joe jokes about how easy this is going to be.
Don reaches for the ignition. Before the key turns, I lean forward and press the blade under his jaw.
Both of them freeze.
Joe slowly twists around in the passenger seat, eyes wide.
“Give me the keys,” I demand.
Don’s hand trembles as he pulls them from the ignition and passes them back over the seat.
I take them and slip them into my pocket.
Joe’s gaze flicks between the knife and Don’s throat. The bottle and rag are still in his hands.
“Both of you were seen with Grant.” My voice lowers. “So you’re going to tell me where he is.”
Don swallows hard. His throat shifts against the edge of the blade.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice thin.
I press the knife deeper. The skin splits and warm blood runs down my fingers.
“You better tell the truth,” I say quietly, “or I’ll carve it out of your throat.”
Don’s breathing turns ragged.
Brooke is not across the street anymore. She has already moved. By the time either of them realizes she's gone, she is standing just outside the passenger side window with her gun drawn.
They never see her.
Joe’s fingers close around whatever he has been reaching for.
A shot cracks through the car.
Joe’s head snaps sideways. Blood and bone explode across the dash and windshield. The force jerks his body, folding him across the center console. His legs kick once before going limp.
Don yells.
I grab his chin, wrench his head back, and drive the blade into his neck. The knife tears through muscle and catches, and the panic in his eyes is immediate.
He claws at the wheel. His feet slam uselessly against the pedals. I rip the blade free and bury it again, higher this time, twisting hard before pulling it out. Blood pours over my hands, flooding the space between us.
His scream breaks into a wet, choking sound.
I hold him there until the strength drains out of his body and his grip goes slack, then shove him sideways and let him collapse against Joe.
I lean back against the seat and exhale.
Brooke’s voice comes through the passenger window, breathless and tight with adrenaline.
“Oh my God. Oh my God, baby, I’m so sorry. Is he dead?”
I turn my head toward the passenger side.
Joe is slumped across the console. Blood soaks the upholstery beneath him, spreading across the dash and dripping down toward the floorboard. Something warm clings to my hairline and slides down the side of my temple.
I glance back at Brooke through the glass.
“Part of his brain is in my hair,” I sigh. “Yeah, baby. He’s pretty fucking dead.”
Travis has climbed out of the SUV and walks over to join her, stopping beside her as he looks through the glass at the mess inside.
He lets out a quiet breath.
“Well,” he says dryly, “there goes our lead.”
I reach into Don’s jacket with fingers still slick with blood, pull out his phone, and wipe it off on his sleeve.
“Good,” I scroll through the phone. “Then let’s see who else wants a turn.”
Outside, Brooke has already started back toward the truck with her gun lowered, Travis falling into step beside her as he looks over the scene.
He glances back at me. “Should we get rid of them or something?”
I step out of the car and take one last look at the bodies slumped in the seats.
“Nah, let them know.”
I shut the door.
“This is what coming for us looks like.”