Chapter 16 The Gray Line
THE GRAY LINE
KAIDEN
I park two blocks from the train yards, kill the engine. The industrial district is quiet at this hour, just the distant rumble of freight cars and the orange glow of sodium lights cutting through the dark.
I pull off my helmet, night air cool against my face. I should be focused on what's ahead. Instead, I pull up Emma's contact and call.
“Hey, you.” Her voice is warm, a little sleepy.
“Hey. What are you up to?”
“Just got home. Planning to curl up with a book and pretend the world doesn't exist for a few hours.” I can hear her smile. “You?”
“Handling some business.”
A pause. “The fire?”
“We have a lead.”
“Kai...” She hesitates. “Be careful, okay?”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Her laugh is soft. I hold onto the sound. In a few minutes, I'm going to walk into a room and do things that would make her look at me differently. Her voice keeps me tethered to the version of myself I want to be. The version that deserves her.
“I'll call you later,” I say.
“You better.”
I hang up, stare at the phone a moment longer. Then put it away.
My phone buzzes.
Maddox: You coming?
He's waiting in the shadows near an old loading dock. Dressed in black, tactical instead of leather. The curved handle of his karambit catches the light at his waist.
Logan and Ethan flank him. Logan's got his sleeves rolled up, restless energy rolling off him. Ethan leans against a car, arms crossed, quiet, coiled tight.
“You called them,” I say to Maddox.
“You need backup.” He shrugs. “They needed to hit something.”
Logan grins, but there's an edge to it. “Been stuck in conference rooms for a week. This is practically a spa day.”
Ethan gives me a nod. Knuckles already taped. He came prepared.
“The clubhouse is around the corner,” Maddox says, tilting his head toward the abandoned factory. “I've been watching for two hours. Most of them cleared out around ten. Four left inside. Two are from Ravenwood. I matched their faces to the camera footage.”
“You're sure?”
“Don't insult me.”
I look at the three of them. We built ELK together. Fought for it. Bled for it. Now we're about to walk into a room full of men who tried to burn down a school with kids inside.
“We go in, we talk first,” I say. “I want information, not a body count. If they swing—“
“Then we swing back,” Logan finishes.
“Harder,” Ethan adds quietly.
Maddox says nothing. He doesn't need to.
The factory is a hollowed-out shell. Graffiti on the walls, broken glass crunching under our feet. Music bleeds from somewhere deeper inside, bass-heavy and loud enough to cover our approach.
We find them in what used to be an office space, now a makeshift clubhouse.
Ratty couches, a bar made from shipping pallets, Serpent colors on the wall.
Four guys, just like Maddox said. Two at the pool table; a big bald one with neck tattoos and a wiry guy with a shaved head, scar cutting through his eyebrow.
Two more at the bar; one with a greasy ponytail nursing a beer, the other stocky and young, barely out of his teens.
I walk in first. The music dies when Ponytail spots me and kills the speaker.
“Evening, gentlemen.”
The big one sets down his pool cue. “The fuck are you?”
“Someone who wants to talk.” I keep my hands visible, voice calm. “You boys did some work in Ravenwood last week. I want to know who paid for it.”
Laughter. The kind that's meant to intimidate.
“You lost, pretty boy?” Neck Tattoo steps closer. “This ain't the part of town for guys in nice jackets.”
“I'm exactly where I need to be. And I'm offering you an easy way out of this conversation.” I meet his eyes. “Tell me who hired you, and we walk away. No trouble.”
He looks past me at Maddox, Logan, and Ethan. Sizes them up. Makes the wrong calculation.
“Get the fuck out of my clubhouse.”
I sigh. “Wrong answer.”
He swings first.
I slip his haymaker and drive my fist into his solar plexus. He doubles over, gasping. I bring my knee up into his face. Cartilage crunches. Blood sprays.
He doesn't go down. The big ones never do.
He barrels into me, shoulder catching me square in the chest. We crash into the pool table.
The edge bites into my lower back. I twist, throw an elbow that connects with his temple, but he's already swinging again.
His fist clips my shoulder, sends pain shooting down my arm.
I block the next one, barely. His ring tears a line across my forearm.
To my left, glass shatters. Ethan has Ponytail by the throat, lifting him off his feet before slamming him through the bar top. Wood splinters. Ponytail doesn't get up. Ethan turns toward the young one scrambling for the door, catches him with a single punch to the kidney. The kid crumples.
Maddox moves like water. Scarface pulls a knife. Maddox sidesteps, catches his wrist, twists. The knife clatters to the floor. A strike to the throat, another to the knee. Scarface is down, gasping, Maddox's karambit at his jugular.
Logan intercepts a bottle aimed at my head. Grins at Ponytail's friend trying to rise from the broken glass. “Stay down, mate.” A boot to the chest settles the argument.
I grab a pool ball and crack it against Neck Tattoo's skull. This time, he goes down.
I straighten, breathing hard, take stock. Maddox has Scarface pinned against the wall, blade at his throat, looking like he could hold that position all night. Logan wipes blood from a split lip. Ethan stands over two bodies, chest heaving, taped knuckles dark with blood that isn't his.
“Which ones were at the school?” I ask Maddox.
He tilts his head toward Neck Tattoo, then Scarface. “Those two.”
I walk over to Neck Tattoo, clutching his broken nose, blood streaming through his fingers. My knuckles throb. The cut on my forearm is bleeding. My shoulder is screaming.
I crouch to his level.
“Let's try again. Who hired you for Ravenwood?”
“Fuck you.”
I grab his hand and bend his index finger back until he screams. The joint pops, not quite breaking. Not yet.
“I asked you a question.”
“I don't—“ He gasps as I apply more pressure. “I don't know his name!”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
Maddox releases Scarface, who crumples to the floor. He walks over, crouches beside me, knife resting on his knee.
“The thing about pain,” Maddox says, voice almost conversational, “is that most people don't understand how much the body can take before it breaks. I do.”
He reaches out, almost gently, takes Neck Tattoo's other hand.
“The hand has twenty-seven bones. Each one can be broken individually.” He presses his thumb against the guy's index finger, finding the joint.
A quick, sharp twist. The snap is loud in the quiet room.
Neck Tattoo screams.
Maddox waits for him to stop, patient as stone. “Twenty-six left. Your call.”
I watch Maddox work. There's no pleasure in his face, no anger. Just efficiency. This is who he is. Who we are, when pushed far enough. The thought should disturb me more than it does.
Neck Tattoo looks at me. At Maddox. At his own hand.
“Alright! Alright, fuck.” He's breathing hard, sweat mixing with the blood on his face. “We got the job through a fixer. Guy named Whitmore. He handles shit for rich people who don't want to get their hands dirty.”
“Whitmore,” I repeat. “Who does he work for?”
“I don't know, man. He just shows up with cash and a target. We don't ask questions.”
“Guess,” Maddox says, pressing slightly harder.
“Hammond! Okay? Word is he's connected to the Hammond family. That's all I know, I swear to God.”
Hammond. The name lands in my gut like a stone.
I stand, body aching in ways I'll feel tomorrow. Maddox releases the guy's hand, straightens, wipes his knife on his jeans before making it disappear.
“See?” I say to Neck Tattoo. “That wasn't so hard.”
Logan finds a bottle that survived the fight, pours glasses. He sets one down next to Neck Tattoo, still on the floor, cradling his ruined hand.
“For the pain,” Logan says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
“Spread the word,” I tell them. “ELK is off-limits. So is anyone connected to me. Next time, we won't be this friendly.”
We walk out the way we came. The night air hits my face, cool and sharp. My hands start shaking as the adrenaline releases.
Maddox falls into step beside me. “Whitmore. I'll have everything on him by morning.”
“Thank you.”
Logan claps me on the shoulder. I wince.
“You hurt?”
“I'm fine.”
“Need a doctor?”
“I need a drink and an ice pack.”
Ethan looks us over with that quiet assessment. “You're both bleeding.”
I glance at my arm. The cut is shallow but seeping. “It's nothing.”
Logan shrugs. Lower lip swollen and bleeding. “Had worse.”
“I'll drive,” Ethan says to Logan, taking the keys from him. “You need a lift?” he asks me.
I shake my head. “I'm good. Thank you for the backup.”
“It's our company,” Logan mutters, heading to the car. “Not just yours.”
Ethan waves, follows him.
Maddox lingers.
“What's up?”
“The trail leads to Hammond,” he says. “That's twice now. The money through Dylan, now this.”
“I know.”
“Your father's not this sloppy, Kai. Someone wants us to find these breadcrumbs.” Maddox's jaw tightens. “Could be a board member trying to curry favor by doing Victor's dirty work. Could be someone else entirely.”
I hear what he's not saying. “You're thinking Voss is back.”
“He trained me. Sold me out. Worked for Hammond before.” Something cold in the way he says it. Old wounds that never healed. “If he's resurfaced, he wouldn't bother covering his tracks. Not from me. He'd want me to know.”
“Can you confirm if he's active?”
“I'll find out.” He pauses. “If it's him, this is just the opening move.”
At my bike, I breathe through the pain. Knuckles raw, shoulder stiffening, blood on my shirt. Most of it isn't mine.
I stare at my phone. Dylan has access to my contacts, my calendar, my messages. If I text Emma from this phone, whoever's watching will know.
jog back toward the street. Logan's car is idling at the corner, Ethan behind the wheel.
I tap on the window. Logan rolls it down.
“Need to borrow your phone.”
He doesn't ask why. Just hands it over.
I walk a few feet away, dial Emma's number. She picks up on the second ring, wary.
“Hello?”
“It's me. I'm using Logan's phone.”
“Kai?” Relief floods her voice, then sharpens into worry. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“Got a bit banged up. Nothing serious.”
“Define 'a bit banged up.'”
I look at my bloodied knuckles, the torn skin on my forearm, the way my shoulder screams when I move it wrong.
“Just some bruises. Maybe a cut or two.”
“Kaiden.”
Something about the way she says my full name makes me close my eyes.
I stood in a room tonight and watched a man's finger break. I did nothing to stop it. I bent another man's hand back until he screamed and felt nothing but cold satisfaction when he gave me what I wanted. I don't know what that makes me anymore.
“I could use some ice for my shoulder,” I say quietly.
“Get over here. Now.”
“Emma—“
“Can you drive? Should I call an ambulance?” The worry in her voice cuts through the darkness.
“I'm not that hurt. I can drive.”
“Then why are you still talking to me? Get here.”
I laugh. It hurts. I don't care.
“Yes, ma'am.”
I hand the phone back to Logan through the window. He looks at my face, sees something there. Nods.
“Go let her fuss over you.” He winks.
I kick the bike to life and pull into the night, heading toward the only person who makes me feel like I might still be worth something.