Chapter 46
RYKER
Hamilton had moved the meeting to tonight, and I hoped like hell we were ready for whatever he had planned. A mile before we reached the destination, I pulled the car over and turned it off.
The engine ticked in the quiet.
The woods were black on black, the kind of dark that made depth hard to judge. A man could be ten feet away or fifty, and you wouldn’t know until he moved.
“Five minutes,” I told them.
Death didn’t argue. Kip didn’t either.
They slipped their masks on before getting out.
Not for Hamilton’s benefit. For anyone else watching.
Kip and Death closed the doors without a sound, moving with the same efficiency I’d seen in every job that mattered.
No wasted motion, and no unnecessary words.
Their bodies disappeared into the tree line so fast it was almost insulting to anyone who thought they could be tracked.
I waited until the forest swallowed them completely, then put the car in drive and eased forward.
The road was dirt and gravel, rutted from trucks that had stopped coming here a long time ago. The tires crunched softly, and every sound felt too big. The car bumped and swayed, and I kept my hands steady on the wheel, forcing myself to breathe slow.
I watched the edges of the road for anything that didn’t belong. Fresh tire tracks. A branch snapped recently. A reflective tack in a tree. Anything that said someone had been here earlier today setting this up.
There were signs. Not obvious ones. Not welcome-to-your-trap signs. Subtle. A piece of tape on a post. A smear of mud where someone had driven off the road and then back on.
Small tells.
The warehouse appeared out of the dark in pieces. Corrugated metal. Broken windows. A sagging loading dock. One exterior light that worked enough to throw a weak circle across the ground.
It wasn’t inviting. This was a place you brought someone when you didn’t want witnesses.
I parked close to the entrance in case I needed a fast escape.
I killed the engine and sat for a second with both hands on the wheel.
Nothing moved.
My phone rested in my palm, but it wasn’t comfort. It was a leash, and Hamilton was holding the other end even when he wasn’t in the car with me.
I didn’t reach for a gun because I didn’t carry one. My knife was strapped to my calf, tight against bone, exactly where it belonged. The familiar pressure grounded me.
I stepped out, shut the door quietly, and scanned.
The air smelled wrong. Wet earth, rust, and something stale that didn’t belong outside. Old oil. Mold. Rot. And underneath it, faint but there, something that made the back of my throat tighten.
I walked toward the entrance slowly because the first person to rush was the first person to die. The door was unlocked. Of course it was. I pushed it open and stepped inside.
The sound of the hinge traveled too far in the empty space.
The warehouse swallowed it, then spat it back at me distorted.
My footsteps weren’t loud, but the building made everything louder anyway.
The main floor was mostly open. Empty pallets stacked in one corner.
A couple rusted shelves. A tarp torn and left hanging from a beam.
And light. A strip of it. Clean and harsh, coming from a room built inside the larger space. Temporary walls, plywood, a makeshift office inside the warehouse, sealed off to hide sound and control sightlines.
Hamilton didn’t just want privacy. The fucker wanted containment.
As I walked toward it, I watched the ceiling for cameras. I saw one and then another.
Small domes tucked into corners that had no reason to be monitored unless someone wanted a record. Unless someone wanted proof later.
My skin went colder. He’s filming this for leverage.
I reached the doorway and stopped outside the light. Let my eyes adjust. Let my senses catch up.
Hamilton Archer stepped into view as if he’d been standing there waiting for the exact second I crossed a line he’d drawn in his head.
He wasn’t wearing the polite mask from his office this morning.
This version of him was stripped down. There was no receptionist, glass tower, or curated hallway.
Only him and whatever he thought he’d bought with Nate’s blood.
Something else was different too. In his office he’d been careful.
Contained in the way people were when they were afraid of saying the wrong thing.
This version of him wasn’t afraid of anything.
“Ryker.” He said my name the same way he’d said it earlier today, measured and almost warm. It made my teeth ache.
Hamilton.
His gaze slid over me once, fast. Looking for cracks. Looking for tells.
“You came alone?” he asked.
I didn’t answer his question.
“Show me Nate.”
His mouth twitched, almost pleased. “Straight to business.”
I stared at him until his smile faded a fraction.
“I don’t have patience for you,” I said.
“Then this will be quick.” He pretended to be calm, still in control.
He turned and walked back into the room without checking if I followed.
I did.
The space inside was worse up close. Plastic sheeting taped down. A metal chair. A folding table with rags and a bottle of water, untouched. An overhead light that made everything look harsher than it already was.
The air was warmer in here. Stale.
Then my attention landed on a man on the floor. He was on his side with his wrists zip-tied behind his back. His shirt was torn, and his face swollen and split. Blood had dried down his cheek and into his hair.
My chest went tight so fast it felt like a bruise. The sight wasn’t just ugly. It was goddamn personal.
Hamilton watched me watch him. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t rush. Didn’t say anything for a beat, because he wanted me to fill the silence with something he could use.
I didn’t.
“There,” he said finally. “Nathaniel.” He said the name like he wasn’t talking about a human being. Like he was naming a file in his lab.
I crossed the room fast and dropped to a knee.
He was alive, barely. His chest rose and fell shallow, uneven. His lips were split so badly I could see where the blood had glued itself together.
His hair was damp at the roots, and I couldn’t tell if it was sweat or water.
I grabbed his jaw carefully and tilted it into the light. The swelling made it difficult to see his face. I suspected Hamilton had done that on purpose to make it harder to confirm it was really Nate.
“I want proof,” I said.
Hamilton’s tone stayed conversational. “That’s him.”
I scoffed. “That’s not proof.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction. “You don’t set the terms.”
I looked up at him. “I’m not leaving with a stranger you beat half to death.”
He gave me a small smile, the kind that pretended it was friendly. “You aren’t leaving at all if you keep talking to me that way.”
The threat was quiet, which meant it was real.
Focus. Get Nate out. You can kill Hamilton later.
“What do you want?” Hamilton’s voice had the same cadence as his office, but there was no softness now.
“His forearm,” I said.
Hamilton didn’t move. “Why?”
“I want to see the rabbit.”
Something flickered behind his eyes. He shrugged, as if he didn’t care. “Go ahead.”
I didn’t take my attention off Hamilton as I reached for Nate’s arm behind him.
The sleeve was pushed up already. Hamilton expected this.
He wanted me to see it. I rolled the forearm into the light.
The familiar rabbit was there. The inside of my head buzzed, but the pain stayed at the edges this time.
I knew what the tattoo meant. It wasn’t just a confirmation that Nate was connected. It was a message. Hamilton was showing me he could take what mattered and mark it. Hurt it. Control it.
He was saying, you don’t get to touch anything without my permission.
Hamilton watched me. He wanted the reaction. He wanted me to break in a way he could label later.
I didn’t give it to him. Instead, I went colder.
I scanned Nate’s forearm beyond the tattoo.
Bruising. Needle marks. I found one. A faint puncture near the inside of his elbow.
Another lower, closer to the wrist. Sedation.
Hamilton hadn’t brought Nate here conscious.
He’d brought him here manageable, which meant Nate hadn’t been held in a simple way.
He’d been handled, and most likely studied.
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to do what mattered.
I pulled my phone up. Sloane’s name sat in my missed calls. I couldn’t call her back. Not with Hamilton watching every move.
I snapped a clear photo of Nate’s face. Close enough that Sloane would know and wouldn’t have to guess through all the swelling and blood.
Then I took one more photo, fast. The rabbit on the forearm. Proof for later. Proof that would make sure Hamilton couldn’t say it didn’t exist.
Hamilton cleared his throat. “One photo.”
I looked up. “No.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I said one.”
I stood slowly, phone still in my hand. “You want to fight about my photos right now?”
Hamilton took a half step forward, then stopped himself. The calm returned in a snap, but it wasn’t a choice. It was a correction. “Send it,” he said.
I didn’t argue.
I texted Sloane the photo.
Is this him?
My thumb hovered for half a second, and my breathing hitched. That picture was going to gut her. It was going to hit her hard, and she was going to have to keep functioning anyway.
Hamilton didn’t speak while I waited. He simply stood there and watched the seconds pass. He wasn’t worried. That was the part that made my stomach twist.
If he was telling the truth, he should have been nervous. He should have been bracing for me to explode. For me to do what men did when you hurt their people.
Instead, he looked collected.
As if he’d already planned what came next.
I held Hamilton’s gaze as I reached into my back pocket and pulled the crow mask on. Hamilton already knew my face. But he wasn’t the only one out here tonight, and I wasn’t walking into the open with Nate over my shoulder and my identity exposed.
Hamilton didn’t react. He watched, patient and unbothered, like a man who already knew exactly how this ended.