Chapter 9 – KADE
KADE
The burn scar on my left arm itches like a motherfucker tonight.
I scratch at it through my black hoodie, the raised skin pulling tight under the fabric.
Four years of healing, and the damn thing still reminds me it's there whenever I'm about to do something that matters. Like my body's keeping score of every betrayal, every lesson learned the hard way.
Some harder than others.
"Target's still inside," I mutter into the comm, adjusting the binoculars.
The glass apartment building across the street looks like every other overpriced piece of shit in this part of town. It's constructed from glass and steel, outfitted with enough security to make rich assholes feel untouchable.
"Third floor, corner unit," I add. "Lights are on."
Tank grunts beside me, his massive frame filling most of the passenger seat of the surprisingly not stolen Honda we use when we want to keep a low profile. He's got his bandana on as always, but I don't have to see his face to know he's ready.
"Security system's looking real friendly right about now," Cyrus's smug as fuck voice crackles through the earpiece. "Give me five more minutes and this place will be blind."
"Copy that." I flip to Jinx's channel. "What's your twenty?"
"Alley behind the building, looking pretty." His voice is light, almost cheerful, like we're planning out a picnic instead of about to ruin some asshole's night. "No movement on the fire escape. Our boy's probably passed out drunk by now."
Good. Drunk makes it easier.
I lean back against the headrest, keeping the binoculars trained on Adam Chessier's window.
Thirty-eight years old, trust fund baby turned day trader, with a hobby that involves stalking twenty-two-year-old barista Sophia Newton home from her job at the coffee shop.
Taking pictures through her windows. Sending her flowers with notes about how she'd look pretty in a casket.
Fucker even went through the trouble of catfishing her for nudes he's been threatening to spread all over the Internet if she doesn't do what he wants.
Real charming.
Sophia came to us three weeks ago with two hundred dollars in crumpled bills and a folder full of evidence the cops wouldn't touch. Stalking only counts to them when the victim ends up in a body bag.
We usually charge ten grand minimum for this kind of work. But something about the way she held that folder, like it contained pieces of her soul, got to me.
Guess I'm going soft.
Movement, Tank signs, pointing toward the building's entrance.
I swing the binoculars down just in time to catch Adam stumbling through the lobby doors. He's wearing a designer suit, and he's got that particular swagger that comes from never facing real consequences for anything even when three sheets to the wind.
That's about to change.
"Target's home," I report. "Cy, you ready?"
"Born ready, boss. Just say the word."
Boss. I still get a kick out of that. Four years ago, we were just a bunch of trailer park kids with anger issues and nowhere to put it. Now we're something else. Something that matters. Something that makes the real monsters check under their beds at night.
"Tank, you're with me. Jinx, start your approach. Cy, kill the lights."
The building's security system powers down with an audible hum. Emergency lighting kicks in, lighting everything up in that deep red glow that makes even angels look like demons.
Perfect.
Tank and I slip out of the car, moving like shadows across the empty street. We know how to be ghosts when we need to be.
Always knew how to slide between the cracks of a world that never wanted us anyway. Might as well turn it into a superpower.
The lobby door's backup locks click open as we approach. Cyrus again, making the impossible look easy. The elevator's dead, which means we're taking the stairs.
"Third floor," I whisper into the comm. "Everyone converge on my signal."
We climb in silence, Tank's boots barely making a sound despite his size. He's gotten good at that over the years, too. All of us have gotten good at shit we never wanted to learn.
The hallway stretches out in front of us, polished floors and expensive art. Just one square foot of this place could buy the whole damn trailer park we grew up in. Apartment 3C sits at the end, light bleeding out from under the door.
I can hear music playing from somewhere. Guess the sound system's still powered. It's classical and pretentious, the kind of shit that probably makes this douchebag feel like he’s a supervillain even when he's taking a dump.
"In position," Jinx's voice whispers through the comm. He's at the fire escape window, ready to come through the back if our boy tries to run.
"Copy." I look at Tank, see the familiar cold focus in his dark eyes. "You ready for this, brother?"
He nods once, cracks his knuckles around those leather fingerless gloves. The sound echoes in the hallway like gunshots.
Tank was always massive. Even when we were kids, he towered over the adults, scared the shit out of people by virtue of existing. No one else sees through to the soft side he's never even tried to hide, but it's so contrary to the way he looks, the whole world is blind to it anyway.
Somehow, Tank actually managed to go through a growth spurt between us dropping out and now. I'm six-two, and he has a solid half foot on me, to say nothing about the muscle. The gentleness in his eyes hasn't gone anywhere, even if it's been hiding beneath an extra layer of steel.
Ever since she left.
Ever since the betrayal that left scars on all of us. Some just wear them more obviously than others.
"Cy, we need that door."
"Already done. Electronic deadbolt's disengaged. You're clear for entry."
I take in a breath, feeling the familiar rush that comes right before we make someone's world collapse. This is what we do. This is justice—the only kind that actually fucking works.
My hand finds the door handle, turns it slowly. Unlocked, just like Cyrus promised.
I signal Tank, count down from three on my fingers.
Three. Two. One.
We burst through the door.
Adam is standing in his kitchen, a glass of whiskey in his hand, tie loosened and rumpled around his neck like a noose just waiting to be tightened. When he turns toward us, his face goes through that beautiful progression of confusion to terror.
He drops the glass.
It shatters against the marble floor, whiskey spreading like blood, and the sound seems to snap him out of his shock. He opens his mouth to scream, but Tank's already moving.
My brother—because that's what he is, blood or not—crosses the apartment in three strides and clamps one massive hand over Adam's mouth. The other wraps around his throat, just tight enough to make breathing interesting.
"Evening, Adam," I say, stepping over the broken glass. "Hope you don't mind us dropping by. We were in the neighborhood."
His eyes are wide above Tank's hand, darting between us like a trapped animal looking for an escape route. There isn't one. We've done this enough times to know how to block all the exits.
"Jinx, you're clear to enter."
The fire escape window slides open and Jinx slips through like smoke.
He's changed out of his usual bright colors into all black, but somehow he always manages to look like he's heading to a fucking photoshoot.
He's still got that long pretty boy hair, even if his face has sharpened into hard angles that make it impossible for anyone to mistake him for a girl the way they used to.
"Adam Chessier," Jinx purrs in that tone that means he wants to crawl inside someone's head and rearrange the furniture. "Thirty-eight years old. Connoisseur of overpriced lattes and dramatic violin music. And a very, very bad man."
Adam tries to struggle against Tank's grip, but he might as well be a mouse fighting a python. Tank doesn't even seem to notice the effort.
"Cy, how are we looking on digital surveillance?" I ask into my comm.
"Clean as a whistle. Building's cameras are showing a loop from two hours ago. Cell tower's experiencing some 'technical difficulties' and our friend's laptop just suffered a tragic hard drive failure."
I grin. Cyrus has gotten creative over the years. The shy kid with the thick glasses has turned into the best hacker this side of the FBI.
"Perfect." I pull out my lighter, flick it open and closed a few times.
The clicking sound always helps me think.
"Now, Adam, here's how this is going to work.
Tank's going to let you breathe, and when he does, you're going to listen very carefully to what we have to say.
Because your life—and I mean that literally—depends on how well you pay attention. "
Tank loosens his grip just enough to let air through. Adam gasps, his face flushed red from lack of oxygen.
"Please," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "I don't know what you want, but I have money. I can—"
"Shut the fuck up," I interrupt, the lighter clicking faster now. "We're not here for your money, Adam. We're here for Sophia Norton."
The name goes off in his thick skull like an atom bomb. I can see it in his bulging eyes. He's trying to figure out how much we know, how much trouble he's in.
The answer is, all of it. And a lot.
"I don't know who—"
Tank's hand tightens again, cutting off the lie before it can fully form. Adam's eyes bug even more and his hands claw uselessly at Tank's wrist.
"Let's try that again," I say, moving closer. "Sophia Norton. Twenty-two years old. Works at Daily Grind Coffee on Twenty-Second Street. Lives in a studio apartment on Eaton Avenue. Drives a 2015 Honda Civic with a dent on the left of her rear bumper."
Each detail makes Adam go a little paler. Good. He should be scared.
"But you'd know all of that, wouldn't you, Adam? You've been following her for six months," I continue. "Taking pictures through her windows. Sending her little 'gifts.' Love letters written in what I'm guessing is your own blood, because you're just that fucking cliche."