Chapter 9
Freshly showered, gym bag slung over my shoulder, I step outside the Ringhouse, South Bay’s only boxing club. Fatigue is just settling into my muscles when the owner of the place appears, headed my way.
“Hey, Walt. Bit late for you to be here, isn’t it?”
The silver-haired man pats the metal box he’s got shoved under his arm. “Wanted to top up the till for tomorrow.”
“I could set you up so you’re not dealing with so much cash. Most people don’t carry much on them these days anyway. It would mean a lot less trips to the bank.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “You know me. I don’t like dealing with all these apps . And I like going to the bank. Lookin’ into the eyes of the people who are touching my money.”
I snort. Walt Mercer is the definition of old school. Mid-seventies, army vet, traditionally trained boxer. Does his taxes by hand. Takes zero bullshit and fucking hates change. That’s probably why I like him so much.
When I suggested he turn his forty-year-old boxing club into an all-combat style gym, I thought he was gonna throw me out. But eventually—and only after I taught a few classes and pulled in a little extra business—he conceded. Didn’t hurt that I offered to work for free.
“The kids seemed to like your class the other night,” he says. “It’s good. They’ll learn to respect the fight. Get their anger out in the ring instead of on the playground.”
“Teach ’em young.” I nod at the box under his arm. “You lock up after you leave. I don’t like all that money in there. It’ll be my ass down here tomorrow morning taking your statement if it gets swiped, so save me the paperwork, yeah?”
“This is the safest neighbourhood in town, Lincoln,” he says with a wink. “Nobody’s gonna break in here. Not when they got me to deal with.”
Walt may be a force to be reckoned with—or was in his heyday—but the real threat is the other club down the road.
South Bay’s west end belongs to the Sinners.
Which means all the businesses within its boundaries are under Sinner protection.
For a fee, of course. But nobody wants to fuck with that kind of smoke.
I smile. “Save some fight for the rest of us, old man.”
With a wave, he disappears through the gym doors.
Shaking my head, I turn into the dark alley next to the building. Before my eyes can adjust, though, I’m met with a punch to my gut, and the wind gets knocked from my lungs. As I fold in two, a pair of hands grab at my collar, and I’m flung headfirst into a brick wall, then thrown to the ground.
On instinct, I spider crawl back, my vision spotty, my ears ringing.
I already know who’s coming for me. This is a Sinner hit. Who their prez sent, though, will dictate how this plays out.
“Hey, Decker.”
When I recognize the voice, relief swims in my chest, and with a harsh breath in, I sprawl out on the cold asphalt.
“Hey, Preach.”
Bane would have had a knife. Tex would have aimed for my dick. Jack or Brick would have gone for the face. Though my brother probably would have let me get a shot in first.
By far, Preacher is my favourite Sinner. They all take turns roughing me up, but he’s the only one who holds back a little.
“Need a minute?” he asks.
“Maybe just one,” I cough out, my hands splayed out on the rough surface beneath me.
He hums as he leans up against the building, waiting. Quiet as usual.
“Catch the Jays game last night?” I rasp.
“Mm-hmm.” He lights up a smoke and exhales a white cloud. “They’ve been breaking my heart all season.”
“They’ll turn it around. Always do.”
“Only to fuck it up at the end. Always do that too.”
With a grunt of agreement, I pull in an extra-large inhale, testing my lungs. When I’m sure I’ve got my breath back, I push up and stand to my full height. I roll out my shoulders, move my neck from side to side, loosen my muscles.
Preacher may be a little more pleasant than the rest of those fucks, but he’s still a Sinner, and he’s here to kick my ass. Retaliation for Grace. Figured Donovan would respond eventually. Allen crossed a line. You don’t throw around a girl like her without consequences.
“All right. Let’s do this,” I say, eyeing the heavy rings on Preacher’s tattooed hands. I crack my knuckles and take another slow breath, preparing my body for what’s coming next.
“I’m just the appetizer tonight, Deck.” He jerks his head towards the end of the alleyway, where it’s much, much darker. “Axe wants a word.”
My gut drops out. Fuck my fucking life.
If Axel Donovan wants to talk, it’s because he wants something from me.
I’d rather take the fucking beating.
With a sigh, I tread deeper into the alley.
When his outline comes into focus, I stop, my muscles locking up of their own accord.
The dude got jacked in prison. I haven’t been this close to him since he got out a month ago, but Jesus.
I should stick him and Allen in a room together and let them at it.
Maybe they’d kill each other and I’d finally get some goddamn peace.
He sticks his hands in his pockets and cocks his head. “I’m confused, Decker. Explain it to me.”
“Specifics, Donovan. I imagine there’s a lot that might confuse you.”
When the muscles in his neck flex, I shift my stance, rooting my feet to the ground.
Preparing myself in case that infamous Axel Donovan temper makes an appearance tonight.
I could probably out-maneuver him, and I could definitely outrun him, but that meaty fist of his makes contact with anything above my neck, and there’s a real chance he could kill me.
Though that bullet I shot through his shoulder two years ago has surely limited his mobility.
“How is it that my town is suddenly crawling with OPP, and I’m only just finding out about it?”
Shit. Right. I definitely meant to tell him about it. Along with the twisted, dead Emily nightmares, it’s the only other thing that’s been plaguing my dreams. How to navigate extra police presence while managing Axel Donovan. Police that are here to actually put Donovan and his men behind bars.
Thing is, Donovan goes down, I go down with him.
I rub the back of my neck. “I’m handling it.”
He takes a step forward, and my feet stay glued to the asphalt. Behind me, Preacher has moved in closer.
“Doesn’t seem like you are,” Axe grits. “Gracie’s got a cruiser-door-shaped bruise on her face and some sergeant is dropping threats, saying he’s coming for me . What the fuck’s going on over there?”
“Yeah… Allen’s a little over-enthusiastic about nailing you in particular. Guy’s out for blood. I’ll move him in another direction, all right? Like I said. Handling it.”
“Hope so. Or this won’t end well for you.”
The threat pokes at my temper. Axe reminds me every chance he gets. His insurance policy. Guaranteeing my compliance, my forced loyalty.
Shit got dark after Emily died.
I couldn’t cope. Couldn’t stop rehashing every decision that led me to the moment another car crossed the centreline and took her life.
If I hadn’t thrown her phone in the back seat, she wouldn’t have taken off her seat belt. If I’d had my eye on the road a second sooner, I could have reacted faster. What if I’d taken another route that day? What if I hadn’t hit that stoplight? What if we’d left South Bay the first time she asked?
I was pissed off. Fucking drowning in guilt. And whiskey. A lot of fucking whiskey.
Worst part? There was no punishment. No atonement. No one to pay penance for what happened to her.
She was dead, and for some fucked-up reason, I survived.
And the other guy? Not even a scratch. Or much of a fucking consequence.
Suspended licence. Probation. A twelve-step program where they talk about feelings.
He didn’t actually hit us, his lawyers argued.
I was tired. She wasn’t wearing her seat belt.
He was drunk and driving on the wrong side of the road, but somehow it was our fault. My fault.
It all led to a pinnacle moment. To an opportunity. And I was faced with a decision.
What kind of man did I want to be?
The boy scout , as Grace would say. The man who stood by the letter of the law, who believed in the justice system, who did what was right. Or the other guy. The man I am now. Who lies and steals and cheats. Who barely blinks when he takes a life.
Obviously I chose the latter.
Because that system? The badge? It failed me, failed Emily. What’s the point of standing by an institution that would betray me like that? That didn’t show up for me when I needed it the most?
At some point, someone put a knife in my hand.
I didn’t have to think about it all that much.
It was retribution. My atonement. My way of tipping the scales back into place.
Blood for blood.
And there was a lot of it. The memory, every sensation, is still fresh in my mind.
The hilt in my hand. Curved to fit, like it was made for me, for the shape of my palm and the grip of my fingers.
It was a part of me that night, an extension of my own twisted sense of justice.
As was the blade. That sharp edge. Clean at first, gleaming silver, and then red.
By the time I finished, it was everywhere. I wore gloves, but it wanted to touch everything. It splattered all over my neck and face, seeped into the sleeves of my shirt, dripped down my wrists and stained my hands.
I burned it all. The clothes I wore that night. Everything I touched after.
Except the knife. Axe kept that. His insurance policy. The shackles that keep me on his payroll. I argued it was circumstantial. Tried to deny the hold he had on me. But then he showed me the video. My hand with the knife, the body slumping, all that fucking blood.
He set me up. Found me drunk and broken, half a man, and offered me that thing I’d been looking for—justice.
I killed a man.
Not by accident. Not out of self-defence. And I liked it. It was… calming. Almost peaceful. At least after the screaming stopped.