Chapter 2
Spade
“Stop it! You’re hurting me!”
“Shut the fuck up, cunt.”
If you know what to listen for, the city gives away its worst secrets in whispers.
In Vegas, behind the Fremont Street throwback neon and the open-mouth tourist bars, it’s always a hum of somewhere-else violence—something that lives under the sound of your own boots.
That’s what drew me down the alley: the texture in a muffled scream, a rattle of struggle pressed into wet cardboard, something too urgent to be mistaken for sex or a mugging. Something I recognized.
“Stop squirming and give me what I paid for.”
“I didn’t agree to that!”
The alley was a one-lane run between dumpsters, puddles up to the ankles, the walls sweating out years of fryer grease from the restaurant at the end.
The only light came from a pawn shop sign, two letters gone and the rest casting a dirty pink through the mist. My jacket took the edge off the wind but not the stench—old cigarettes, hot plastic, an undertone of blood.
“My fucking money says you did.”
“I’m gonna scream.”
“The fuck you are.”
He was working in the triangular shadow beneath the broken fire escape.
Heavy, arms built for drywall or sheet metal, middle-aged but not weak.
He had a woman jammed against the wall, one forearm pressed into her neck, his other hand between her knees, wrist grinding in like he could force an answer out of bone.
She wasn’t making noise anymore, just the thin hiss of breath, mouth open and gums showing, her eyes as white as chalk.
He was in the zone, head tucked in, whole body bent to the job of taking what he wanted.
“You’re a pretty little cunt, aren’t you?”
“Not for you, asshole.”
I don’t announce myself when I’m not paid to.
There isn’t a speech that would make this better for anyone.
I closed the gap in four steps—boots sinking into rotten cardboard, hand out, and two fingers hooked into the collar seam at the back of his neck.
I pulled up and back like lifting a stubborn dog, and he let go on reflex, spinning with his fists half-raised before his feet could figure out the floor.
The woman collapsed down the bricks, catching herself with her hands, crawling two feet before her legs buckled underneath.
“Run,” I said to the woman. “And don’t look back.”
I put myself between her and him. The man squared up, getting his air back, sweat already shining on his neck. The logo on his jacket was something local, a construction firm that specialized in strip-mall chain renovations. “Fuck is your problem?” he spat. “Get lost.”
I kept my eyes on him, not the woman. “I told you to run,” I said over my shoulder. My voice comes out flat in moments like this. It’s not for drama—it’s just a fact.
She made a sound, not a word, and I risked a glance. Her face was smeared with blood, not all hers, and she couldn’t get her hands under her. I crouched, just enough to get to her level, still keeping myself in the man’s sightline.
“You’re safe,” I said, with the kind of certainty that is the opposite of comfort.
“At the end of the alley, take a left at the street. Don’t look back.
” I watched her push herself upright, legs wobbling but improving, and I didn’t move until I heard the slap of her soles turning the corner at a run.
The man gave me a slow, shitty smile. “You got the wrong idea,” he said, voice pitching up for the benefit of an imaginary jury. “Bitch was tweaking, she followed me. Ask her.” He spread his hands, feigning surrender, fingers curled like claws. I smelled fear and loved it.
“We’re going to make this right,” I said. “It goes no other way.”
“Fuck you,” he said, defiant but not confident in his words.
I didn’t answer. He wanted my name, or some reason why I wasn’t backing down.
Instead, I let him take two steps toward me, just enough rope for him to convince himself that a fight was still possible.
He was taller, heavier, but his wrists moved in a way I knew—too fast, compensating for a bad shoulder or a healed break.
He threw a hook, right hand looping in, expecting me to duck or cover.
Instead, I took it on the outside of my forearm, stepped in with my left, and cracked the heel of my palm up into his chin.
I felt the click of teeth through the glove.
He staggered, bleeding from the mouth now, and tried to circle.
I kept him in the dead space by the dumpster, using the wall to crowd him.
He tried a desperate grab, going for the inside of my jacket, and I let him get a grip, then twisted his arm back against the bin until I heard the soft crack of cartilage.
He dropped, knees first, howling and cursing.
I didn’t let it go on. “Are you done?” I said. Not angry, just checking.
He spat at my boots, then glared up. “You gonna fucking kill me, dyke?”
I looked at him, steady, and then at the pawnbroker neon burning pink on the puddles. The city reflected everything in the end, even the garbage. “You’re going to sit here,” I told him. “And think about what happens if you ever touch another woman again.”
He looked like he wanted to challenge it, but I saw the defeat. Men like him needed the illusion of consequence, and I didn’t plan to give him any beyond this. He sagged against the wall, holding his arm, and I stepped back, clearing the way.
The woman was gone, vanished into the light-stained sidewalk, a stray echo of her footsteps already erased by traffic. I exhaled, shoulders slumping for the first time since I’d entered the alley.
He didn’t run. That’s always the first thing that stands out.
The ones who do this kind of harm never believe the consequences are real, not even when their face is pressed to the pavement, and their breath is coming in wet, panicked hitches.
He just sat where I left him, wrist bent at a wrong angle and blood seeping between his knuckles, waiting to see if the world would set itself back to normal.
I let him wait. Some lessons are best taught by silence, and in the neon smog of that alley, time stretched thin enough to cut.
“You feel good about yourself, picking on a woman?”
“Fuck you, lady.”
Not really the answer I was looking for. Remorse would have kept him alive.
I had the kit out of my jacket before he registered what it was—a black canvas roll, clipped tight, the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a tattoo shop or the glove compartment of someone who never planned to get caught.
He watched with a kind of sick fascination as I unrolled it on the lid of the nearest dumpster, smoothing the canvas with the side of my palm.
Everything in order: the knife first, four-inch drop-point, surgical-sharp; then the wire, stainless, looped and braided tight as a bicycle cable; then the locking pliers, the jaws already scored from use.
He started with the noise. “Listen,” he said, voice breaking, “I got money. I know people. You want me gone? Say the word, and I’ll leave town tonight.
I’ll never come back.” He was sweating so hard that the neck of his jacket was dark.
His left hand was already ballooning, purpling under the skin, but he kept it close to his chest, nursing it like a baby.
“People like you are only sorry after they get caught. Rapists, molesters, abusers, all the same.” I looked at him hard. “Well, fuck you and your apologies because I know you’ve done this shit before. People like you never change.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, bitch.” He tried to move, and I kicked him in the mouth.
I worked the zip ties around his ankles, then his wrists. The pliers were for that; easier to pull them tight without slicing skin, keeps the blood inside until you want it out. He squirmed a little, but the garbage behind him made a cage, keeping him from moving too much.
Strangers passed by, but this was Vegas. Nobody gave a shit about two adults in a dark alley, having a little fun.
He tried again, louder this time. “You fucking psycho! You touch me, you’ll get the same, I swear to god, my crew will gut you and dump you in the goddamn desert—“
That was when I took the knife and, slow as reading, pressed the point under his chin. The pink neon stuttered over the blade, turning it ghostly. “Don’t,” I said. “Not yet.”
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered.
This made me chuckle. “Not yet.”
He shut up. Even with the fear turning his face to meat, he understood something in my voice: the absolute lack of hurry.
I cut his shirt sleeve up to the elbow and saw the ink—old, blue prison tattoos, letters faded into blotches, a story told in half-erased threats.
I dragged the blade along his forearm, just the surface, enough to let blood bead up and roll down to his palm.
He watched, riveted, every muscle tense with the expectation of more pain than I was giving him.
The kick to the face had made him wobbly. A smarter man would have fought back or at least tried to run. Not this asshole. He was into some dark, satanic shit and wanted to see what I would do next, having no idea I’d take him to the edge and dump his ass off.
“Why?” he said, almost to himself. It was a genuine question, and it caught me off guard for a second. Most of them never get there. I could have told him the truth, but it would have changed nothing. I leaned in, close enough for him to smell my breath, and said, “Because you earned it.”
“Fuck you.”
I chuckled in his ear.
He cried a little. They always do. Once the hope goes out, the tears start. It makes people ugly in a way that’s hard to explain; the mask slips off, and what’s underneath is just raw animal panic.
I kept my eyes on the work. I used the wire to loop his fingers together, second knuckle to second knuckle, and then cinched it with the pliers until the flesh puckered white and the joints started to fail.
He tried to scream, but all that came out was a hoarse animal noise, so I packed a wad of rag into his mouth and taped it in place.
Yes, when I was out on the prowl, I carried a small amount of Duct Tape with the kit.
I kept going, methodical, crosshatching the backs of his hands, watching the blood drip onto the concrete in patterns that looked almost deliberate.
Halfway through, he managed to buck his head back against the bricks, popping the gag loose enough to spit it out. “I got a family,” he sobbed. “Please. Please. I got a little girl.”
I stopped, looked at him. For the first time since this started, I let some emotion show—not pity, but a kind of weary disgust. “So did she,” I said, and his eyes went flat, all the light gone out. “So did all the others.”
“What the fuck, bitch? How’d you know about the others?”
See, someone like him never has just one victim. They leave a bloody path from one to the other. That’s why they deserve what I give them.
“What’s your name?” he asked
“Spade,” I said, and fixed the gag.
The rest was clean. I angled the knife under his jaw, found the pulse, and made a single cut.
His blood was hot and fast, pulsing out in a fan that hit the dumpster and painted the metal before it began to slow.
His body slumped sideways, wrists still bound, and for a few seconds, he looked like he was just taking a nap, chin to chest, the darkness creeping up his neck.
“Goodnight, asshole.”
I wiped the blade on the inside of his jacket, not my own.
I sat there for a moment, feeling the wetness under my boots, the roar of the strip filtering in through the end of the alley.
I checked my own wrist, two fingers pressed to the vein, not for the pulse but just to feel the pressure—an old habit, a ritual I couldn’t remember starting.
I rolled up the kit, snapped it shut, and put it away.
On the way out, I stepped around the growing pool of blood, careful not to track it.
At the mouth of the alley, I checked both directions, then walked out into the open, letting the casino lights and the crowd swallow me up.
In a city like this, even the ghosts had places to be.