6. Tyler #2
"I need to step out," I tell her. My voice drops an octave. The protective register locking into place. "Thirty minutes. Tops."
Wendy frowns. Her hands tighten on my shirt. "Where?"
"To buy a name. The suit who comes in here on Tuesdays. I need his schedule. I need his blind spots. I need his goddamn home address."
"Tyler, no. The Syndicate will kill you if they catch you asking questions."
"They won't catch me." I grip her chin. Tilting her face up. Forcing her to meet my eyes. The certainty in my gaze brooks no argument. "I’m going to dismantle them. Piece by piece. Starting with the man who takes your money. He doesn’t touch your shop again. He doesn’t breathe the same air as you."
I kiss her. Hard. Dominant. Leaving no room for negotiation. My tongue sweeps her mouth, claiming the taste of her, reminding her who holds the reins now.
"Lock the deadbolt the second I’m outside," I command, my voice a low vibration. "Drop the iron gate. Don’t open it until you hear my voice. Understood?"
She swallows hard. Her dark eyes wide. She recognizes the violence simmering just beneath my skin. "Understood."
I step out of the Vinyl Vault. The thud of the deadbolt sliding into place echoes behind me. The iron security gate rattles shut. Good. She’s safe. The fortress is sealed. Now, the monster goes to work.
The Ridge Road looms in the distance as I walk toward the edge of Crimson Hollow. The sky is the color of bruised iron. The air smells of incoming rain and thick exhaust.
This town is a rotting corpse. The Syndicate operates it like a slaughterhouse, bleeding the civilians dry, hiding behind legal easements and corporatized extortion.
They think they’re untouchable. They think their published schedules and neat little collection routes make them legitimate.
They’re about to learn what happens when you threaten a Broken Halos prospect's mate.
The Crossroads Diner sits right on the county line.
A glowing neon beacon of cheap grease and bad decisions.
I push through the glass doors. The bell clatters above my head.
The scent of stale frying oil and burnt coffee assaults my sinuses.
The place is half-empty. Truckers, drifters, and ghosts.
No one looks twice at me. I’m wearing Tom's clothes, but the man inside them is fully awake.
I slide into the corner booth in the back.
My shoulders brush the cracked red vinyl.
I sit facing the door. Full situational awareness.
Every exit mapped. Every patron cataloged.
The waitress wiping down the counter. The old man nursing a soup.
The cook cursing in the back. My hands rest flat on the sticky Formica table.
The door opens. Nadia walks in.
She’s club-aligned. Logan keeps her on the books. She moves like a shadow slipping between streetlights—leather jacket, sharp eyes, unbothered by the rot of the town around her. She slides into the booth across from me. She doesn't order. She doesn't even look at a menu.
"You're making a lot of noise for a ghost, Portland," Nadia says. Her voice is low, perfectly modulated. The tone of a woman who calculates the lethal radius of every man she meets.
"I need the schedule. The guy in the suit. Tuesday afternoon block."
Nadia stares at me. Her dark eyes flick over my face, registering the lack of fear. "The lieutenant runs this town like a Fortune 500 company. The collector is just a gear in the machine. You break the gear, the machine crushes you."
"Sell me the gear."
"Three hundred."
I pull a tight roll of bills from my jacket. I slide three hundred dollars across the table. Nadia's hand sweeps over it. The cash vanishes into her leather jacket in a blur of motion.
"He drinks at the Timber Trail Tavern on the eastern edge of town," Nadia says, her voice a flat whisper.
"Friday nights. Always alone. He parks his vehicle in the alley behind the chop shop during his collection runs.
Name is irrelevant. He answers to the lieutenant on a secure line every night at midnight.
He carries a piece on his left hip. Flinches when a door slams."
She stands up. Nadia leaves the diner before her coffee order is ever taken. The bell over the door chimes once and goes silent.
I remain in the booth for two minutes. Processing the intel.
Friday night. The alley. A secure line at midnight.
The Syndicate isn’t a phantom enemy anymore.
They’re a corporation with schedules, habits, and blind spots.
Habits get men killed. The Tuesday Enforcer is a creature of routine.
I’ll break that routine. I’ll break his spine.
I slide out of the booth. I exit the diner.
The cold Crimson Hollow air hits my face.
The plan crystallizes in my mind. Violent.
Final. I’ll sever the Syndicate's administrative grip on this block. I’ll use their own corporatized structure against them.
I’m going to gut the lieutenant's operation, and I’m going to leave the pieces on his doorstep.
All of it for her. To keep the Vinyl Vault safe. To keep Wendy untouched.
My boots hit the cracked pavement. My pulse is a slow, steady drumbeat.
I’m no longer a deep-cover operative gathering scattered evidence for a future strike.
The mission parameters established by Logan Gunnar are erased.
The Ignition destroyed the protocol. I’m a patched-in-waiting prospect actively protecting his mate's territory.
The Vinyl Vault is my ground now. Anyone who crosses the threshold with bad intentions will leave in a body bag.
The shop comes into view down the narrow street. The OPEN sign is flipped to CLOSED. The iron security gate is pulled across the glass door. Wendy followed my orders. Pride flares hot in my chest. She’s smart. She’s a fierce survivor. And she’s mine.
I step up to the gate. I rap my knuckles against the metal twice. Deliberate.
"It's me," I say, my voice carrying through the glass.
The deadbolt clacks loudly in the quiet street. The gate rattles as she pulls it back just enough for me to slip inside. I step through the threshold. The warmth of the shop wraps around me instantly. The smell of old vinyl and her sweet skin hits my lungs like pure oxygen.
Wendy locks the door the second I’m clear. She turns to face me. Her eyes search my face for any sign of damage. Any sign of the mask returning. She finds neither.
I wrap my hand around the back of her neck. My thumb presses into her racing pulse. I pull her flush against my chest. The war is coming. The lieutenant is going to burn. The Enforcer is going to bleed. But inside this room, behind the locked gate, the perimeter holds.
"I got him," I murmur against her hair, my voice a dark promise. "He's a dead man walking."
The Syndicate thinks they own this town. They think they hold all the cards. They have no idea a monster’s already inside the walls, and the monster just found his reason to slaughter.