The warehouse smells of gasoline and dust. The sort of place where you leave your name behind—and perhaps your pulse.
I don't knock.
I shoulder open the rusty door, Glock in hand, breath held shallow. Sweat and smoke fog the air, as though the entire building were waiting in breathless anticipation. Shadows clung to the rafters. Footsteps echoed from the depths within. This was it. The beginning of the end or the beginning of something worse.
They brought me here. I am certain of it.
But I am finished being led.
My boots ring out on the concrete as I go deeper. All my instincts shout trap—but I don't stop. I've traveled too far to hesitate. The names, the stories, the blood—all of it led me here. Drexler. Virelli. Wolfe. And whatever the devil else has been playing God behind the scenes.
A click behind me.
I halt.
"You come in here with a badge and an attitude," a voice says. Smooth. Cold. Arrogant. "You think you've gained something?"
I slowly turn.
Darius Wolfe.
In person.
He emerges from the shadows, two men with stone eyes and bulges under their jackets flanking him. A third person—older, sharper—behind them, arms crossed. Jonathan Drexler.
"I don't need to win," I tell him. "I just need to reveal you."
Wolfe laughs. "Reveal what, exactly? That there is corruption? That rich men play dirty?"
My finger tightens on the trigger. "That you've murdered for it. Covered it up. Purchased silence in blood."
He doesn't argue.
Drexler advances, calm, hands in sight. "Detective Kane, consider what you're doing. You're standing in a warehouse, alone, with no warrant, no backup, and no apparent exit."
"Wrong," I growl.
The burner in my pocket vibrates once.
I hold it to my ear. Lillian.
"Don't play along," she says, voice stretched thin through static. "Listen. The autopsy results were faked. The actual wound patterns are consistent with a black-ops hit—military, not mob. Wolfe didn't call the shot. He covered it up."
My blood freezes.
"You're not the top of the ladder, Wolfe," I say slowly, setting the phone down. "You're just a middleman."
Something flickers in Wolfe's eyes. A spark. Then he smiles once more.
"That would make you extremely dangerous, wouldn't it?"
"More than you can imagine."
Steps behind me.
I spin just in time to see Jax emerge out of the darkness.
Gun drawn.
On Wolfe.
Not me.
"Get down," he barks.
And all hell erupts.
The gun cracks in the air. Wolfe's shoulder spasms back as he falls, screaming. Guns drawn. Screams. I take cover behind a pillar, bullets spitting off metal. Jax is a moving shadow—efficient, ruthless. One of Wolfe's men falls screaming. The other shoots wildly into the darkness.
"Get out of here, Kane!" Jax yells.
I run for the door, but a hand clamps on my arm—Drexler. His eyes wild, desperate.
You don't understand! This is more than Wolfe. You think you know the truth? You don't even come close."
He threatens with a knife.
Instinct kicks in.
One shot.
Center mass.
Drexler falls, hand spasming.
Gunfire dissolves. Sirens now—distant, but rapidly approaching. Sylvie must've called it in.
Jax is bleeding. Shoulder wound. He clamps onto my collar as we sprint into the alley.
"I burned them," he spits. "All the files. The ones they didn't want discovered. Took photographs. It's in the cloud."
"Who else knows?"
"Just one. And she's next."
I don't have to ask who. Sylvie.
We rush to her car. She's already gone before the door closes.
"Is he dead?" she wants to know.
"Drexler, yes," I reply. "Wolfe, no."
She doesn't appear relieved. "Then it's not over."
It never is.
Later, when the smoke has cleared and the bodies are ziplocked, I stand at the perimeter of the wreckage, the warehouse now cordoned off by uniforms who don't ask enough questions.
Someone died tonight.
Someone disappeared—Wolfe got away.
And the truth?
It's taken on a new shape.
What began as a murder investigation is now a war against something sprawling, invisible, and long-patience.
They tried to murder me.
They failed.
Now I'm going to make them wish they had succeeded.