He nods fast. “Got it.”
Leaving her feels wrong.
Not inconvenient. Not irritating. Wrong.
I stand outside the infirmary door with one hand braced against the frame, eyes cutting over every angle before I let myself move away.
Brooke is inside with Olivia. Doc is there too, checking the IV site because Olivia ripped the damn thing out before she tried to leave.
He grumbled about stubborn women and dangerous men while he worked, which earned him one sharp look from Brooke and nothing from Olivia.
She didn’t look at me when she went back into the room. Not directly. But she knew where I was. That was enough.
For now.
I scan the hall. Hammer posted one man near the side entrance. Cain has another at the end of the corridor. Tate is outside the infirmary, standing stiff enough to look like he’s trying to be carved from stone. Too young to pull it off, but smart enough not to talk. His eyes flick to me.
I hold his stare until his shoulders square. “No one else goes in except Brooke, Doc, or Logan,” I tell him.
He nods fast. “Got it.”
“Only them unless it’s an emergency and Doc needs help.”
Another nod. “Yes. Got it.”
“Anyone else tries?”
He swallows. “I stop them.”
I step closer. His face loses color. “You call me,” I say.
Relief and fear hit him at the same time. “Right. Call you.”
Better.
I move down the hall, but every step away from the infirmary pulls tight across my shoulders.
I tell myself it’s security. I tell myself it’s because Olivia is targeted, because someone had a folder on her, because her name and routine and family details were in a van with syringes and zip ties. That’s all true.
It’s just not all of it.
The clubhouse sounds different now. Muted.
Everyone knows something happened. The women’s voices stay lower.
The kids are being kept to the far side of the main room, away from the hall, away from the downstairs door.
Jason’s voice carries for half a second, high and irritated about something only a five year old would think matters during a crisis, before Emma hushes him softly.
Life keeps moving.
Even when ugliness crawls through the gate.
I pass through the main room without stopping. Mac watches me from beside Logan’s office door, Knox half-asleep against her chest. Kya has Remy tucked close, though the kid is fighting her like he has business to handle.
Blaze is waiting near the door to the lower level, arms crossed, mouth tighter than usual. He still looks like he wants to say something. He always looks like he wants to say something. He doesn’t. That tells me how ugly this is going to get. “Logan’s downstairs,” he says.
“I know.”
“Joker’s been smiling for ten minutes.”
“Not my problem.”
Blaze falls into step beside me as I pull open the basement door. “That’s where you’re wrong, brother. When Joker smiles like that, it becomes everyone’s problem.”
I don’t answer.
The air changes halfway down the stairs. Cooler. Damp around the edges. The clubhouse above is family, noise, food, leather, smoke. Down here is concrete, old pipes, metal, and men who know exactly what rooms like this are for. The cage is at the far end.
Not a literal cage, not anymore, though the name stuck from older days. It’s a reinforced room with a drain in the floor, one chair bolted down, and enough soundproofing to keep the women and kids from hearing what needs to happen when men like us need answers.
Logan stands outside it when I reach the bottom.
Cain is with him, arms folded, face hard.
Shadow leans against the opposite wall, silent and unreadable.
Hammer is inside the room, checking restraints.
Joker stands in the corner near the sink, hands loose at his sides, head slightly tilted as he watches the man in the chair.
He’s smiling. Not wide. Not wild. Worse. Pleased.
The surviving man is tied down hard, wrists locked to the arms of the chair, ankles bound to the legs.
His face is swollen from the street. One eye already puffing shut.
Blood crusted along his mouth and nose. He’s breathing hard, trying not to look scared, which means he’s scared as hell.
Especially after watching us dispose of the other three like trash.
Good.
Fear opens doors. Pain keeps them open.
Logan looks at me as I stop beside him. “You good?”
“No.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen. “That a problem?”
“For him.”
Blaze mutters behind me, “Well, at least we’re all communicating.”
Logan cuts him a look.
Blaze lifts both hands. “Sorry. Tension reflex.”
Joker’s smile grows a fraction.
“Let’s start,” Logan says.
I walk into the room.
The man in the chair tries to lift his head, but his neck is stiff and his breathing catches when he sees me. He remembers the street. Remembers the door. Remembers the gun falling out of his hand. Remembers enough.
I stop in front of him. No posture. No threats. No show. I don’t need to convince him I can hurt him. I already did. “Who paid you?”
His tongue moves over split lips. “I don’t know.”
Hammer moves first. No warning. He drives his fist into the man’s ribs, short and brutal, not wild enough to break everything at once, controlled enough to make sure the pain stays useful. The man jerks against the restraints with a strangled sound.
I wait until he can breathe again. “Who paid you?”
“I said I don’t know.”
Joker pushes off the wall. The room gets colder.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t speak. Just crosses behind the chair, slow enough that the man can hear every step but can’t turn to watch him fully.
That’s the point. Men fear what they can’t track more than what they can see.
Joker leans down near his ear. “You sure?” he asks softly.
The man shudders.
Blaze’s humor is gone now. He stands near the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. Even he understands this isn’t a room for jokes, not unless they’re the kind that make the blood drain out of someone’s face.
“I don’t know his name,” the man says, faster now. “Payments come through drops.”
“What drops?” Logan asks.
“Cash. Sometimes wire. Different names.”
“Who gives the job?” Shadow asks.
The man’s eye flicks toward him.
Wrong choice.
Hammer hits him again.
The chair legs scrape against concrete, but the bolts hold. The man coughs, spitting blood onto his shirt.
I wait.
Patience is part of it.
A man will fill silence if he thinks pain is waiting on the other side. “Scout,” he gasps. That word sits in the room.
Logan’s head tilts slightly. “Say that again.”
“There’s a scout,” the man says, breath breaking. “He finds them. Or he confirms them. Depends on the request.”
Request.
My hands stay loose. That takes effort. Not visible effort. But effort.
“What kind of request?” Cain asks.
The man’s mouth trembles around the answer. “Women.”
Joker’s smile disappears. That’s worse than when it was there.
Hammer shifts his weight.
Blaze curses under his breath, low and disgusted.
I step closer.
The man tries to pull back, but there’s nowhere to go.
“How many girls?”
“I don’t know.”
Hammer’s fist comes up.
The man flinches so hard he almost tips the chair. “I don’t fucking know,” he rushes out. “We get assignments. That’s it. We get a folder. Name, photos, route, maybe family. We grab, deliver, get paid.”
“Deliver where?” Logan asks.
“It changes.”
Hammer grabs his hair and yanks his head back. “Wrong answer.”
“It changes,” he says, panic breaking through now. “I swear. Drop points come last minute. Sometimes warehouse, sometimes storage units, sometimes straight to another crew.”
“Another crew?” Shadow asks.
“Transport.”
Logan’s jaw tightens. “For trafficking?”
The man closes his mouth. That is answer enough.
Cain swears, one quiet vicious word.
I look at the table against the far wall. The folder we took from the van sits there.
Olivia Martin.
I move toward it.
Logan watches me but doesn’t stop me.
I open the folder. The paper feels too clean for what it is.
Her face looks back at me from the first page.
Not from tonight. Not from the street. A photo taken from a distance, probably outside the salon.
She’s laughing in it, head turned slightly toward whoever she was with, one hand lifted like she was mid-sentence.
My chest goes still. The room fades. Not gone. Never gone. Just less. I turn the page.
Salon address. Work schedule. Usual closing times. Vehicle information crossed out with a note that she often walks when staying late. Mother’s name. Father’s name. Siblings. A brother. A younger sister. Neighborhood. Daily patterns.
Too much.
They had too fucking much.
Every line is a hand on her. Every photo is a set of eyes that got too close.
I read it all. I don’t skim. I drink it in because information is control, and I need control over every inch of danger that has touched her life.
I need to know who she calls, who expects her home, who might panic when she doesn’t answer.
I need to know what they know so I can rip the knowledge out of every other hand that holds it.
And underneath that, deeper than strategy, uglier than logic, is something I don’t name.
Need. Not soft. Not warm. A gnawing thing with teeth.
I need more. More about her. More of her. More ways to make sure this file becomes the last place any stranger ever holds her name.
“Cobra.” Logan’s voice cuts through.
I look up.
The room is watching me. I close the folder slowly.
“Who gave you this?” I ask.
The man stares at the folder, then at me. “I didn’t see him.”
I take one step toward him.
His breathing changes. “I didn’t,” he says quickly. “I swear. Folder was in the van when we picked it up.”
“Where?”
“Lot off Route 16. Behind the old tire shop.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“Who called?”
“Burner.”
“Number?”
“I don’t remember.”
Joker moves behind him again.
The man starts shaking before Joker touches him. “I can get it,” he blurts. “It’s in the phone. Burner in the van. I didn’t memorize it.”
Blaze looks at Logan. “Dom’s got the phone.”
Logan nods once. “Good.”