Kimber is already being pulled from that house—papers filed; custody transferred to Emerson where it belongs. It almost felt too easy, like sliding a blade through warm butter. No blood, no noise. Just signatures, timestamps, and systems bending the way they were supposed to. For once, the law worked in our favor. Kimber will be safe now—or at least safer than she’s ever been. That part was simple.
The hard part—the fun part—comes tonight. Tonight, when I finally get to carve Trent Malloy’s name off the board and etch another tally into the war I’m waging. One more cut. One more body. Another hotdog octopus for the pile, another “untouchable” reduced to meat. I almost laugh at the image, because the thought of collecting them like twisted trophies is the only way to keep from drowning in the rage that fuels me. Before long, I’ll have an entire consortium. A council of the dead. Men who thought they were kings, laid low at my feet like nothing more than butchered scraps.
It’s taken weeks to set this in motion. Weeks of watching, waiting, tracking his patterns and movements, piecing together a puzzle that never seemed to want to fit cleanly. The wiretap gave me enough to know Bryce promised him something monumental—a “big job,” significant enough to warrant the promise of Kimber as some disgusting prize. But that’s all they gave me. No details. No timeline. Just silence that gnawed at me every second since, leaving me guessing, pacing, planning without knowing when he’d make his move.
And that uncertainty is the sharpest blade of all. For all I know, he could’ve already done it. Whatever this job was, it could be finished, and Kimber simply hasn’t swapped hands yet. That thought coils in my gut, cold and venomous, because it means I’m already behind. I hate being behind. It means I’m reacting instead of controlling, clawing instead of cutting clean.
But tonight, that changes. Tonight, Trent Malloy’s time runs out, whether he’s finished Bryce’s job or not. Because the second he thought Kimber’s life could be bartered like currency, he wrote his own ending, and I’m the one holding the pen.
~~~~~
The docks reek of salt and rot, that sickly cocktail of dead fish, oil, and mildew that never fades, no matter how many tides roll through. It’s a smell that seeps into your clothes, clings to your hair, and follows you home like a curse. The night air is sharp, cold enough to bite at my lungs with every inhale, heavy enough to press down like a weight across my chest. The shadows here are thick, layered, and broken only by the flicker of a dying floodlight that throws fractured beams across the wet pavement. Perfect cover. Perfect stage.
I crouch behind a stack of crates, fingers tight on the hilt of my blade, waiting. Patience hums through me, but underneath it thrums anticipation, a predator’s focus honed razor-sharp. My heartbeat is steady, my breathing controlled. This is where I belong—in the dark, in the silence before the kill.
Vince Toller finally stumbles out of the warehouse, his boots dragging lazily across the concrete, leaving faint wet streaks behindhim. He reeks of sweat and cheap liquor, but his grin shines bright and smug in the dim light, his bloodshot eyes flicking greedily to the wad of cash in his hands. He fans the bills like they’re a trophy, smirking to himself as though he’s king of the docks, the untouchable rat fattening himself on scraps no one will miss. He thinks the stink of the ocean hides the stink of his sins, but I smell it. I see it. Every crime clings to him like grime under his fingernails.
He doesn’t notice me sliding from the shadows, my steps as quiet as the tide rolling beneath the dock. He doesn’t hear the soft whisper of my blade freeing itself, steel catching faint light like a promise. His head bows, his lips moving silently as he adds zero after zero to the cash in his head. Whiskey. Drugs. Girls too young to know better. He’s already spent it all before the night’s over.
I let him walk, let him wander closer to the water, where the waves slap lazily at the pylons, where the noise of the surf will swallow his cries. My foot kicks a loose chain lying abandoned on the ground. The sharp metallic clatter shatters the stillness, ricocheting down the dock. Vince’s head jerks up, confusion flashing across his face as he turns toward the sound.
That’s when I move.
I’m on him before he can think, my hand clamping over his mouth, cutting off his startled grunt, shoving him back against the wall of rusted steel siding. The impact rattles his teeth, the sound a dull thud against the hollow metal. My blade slides under his chin, cold and sharp, kissing the tender flesh of his throat. His body stiffens, eyes flying wide, red-rimmed and desperate. He trembles, breath wheezing hot against my palm.
I lean in close, so close that my breath ghosts across his ear, so close he can smell the iron tang of steel mixed with the salt of the sea. My voice is low, deliberate, a whisper sharpened into a blade. “I know what you’ve done, Vince.”
His pupils dilate, panic swallowing the arrogance. And for the first time tonight, he realizes he’s not untouchable. He’s prey.
“You like to skim shipments, huh, Vince?” My whisper slithers into his ear, low and venomous, a blade of its own. “Think nobody notices when you take what isn’t yours?” My knife presses harder beneath his chin, just enough to part the skin. A bead of crimson wells up and trails down his throat, catching in the hollow of his collarbone. He whimpers, the sound muffled against my palm, shaking his head in frantic denial, as though flailing lies will undo the truth carved into him.
“But that’s not even your worst sin, is it?” I hiss, my voice tightening with every word, each one slicing deeper than steel. “No, Vince. You thought no one kept track of the kids you traded like currency. The girls you promised work at the docks—told them you’d give them a chance—and then sold them off when they couldn’t pay you back. You thought the sound of the ocean drowned their screams, that their families would never know why they vanished.” My lip curls, rage flooding every syllable. “And what about the boy? The one who ran. The one you tossed into the water like trash, just to prove a point. You stood there and watched him thrash until the tide swallowed him whole. Thought nobody saw, didn’t you?”
His eyes bulge, sweat dripping down his temples as the truth rattles through him harder than my grip. All while his legs kick weakly, the fight draining from him, replaced with the blind panic of a man realizing his sins aren’t secrets anymore. His boots scrape against the splintered wood of the dock as I drag him forward, every step punctuated by the screech of rubber against wet planks. The sound echoes in the night, a fitting dirge.
We reach the edge where the waves lap greedily at the pylons, black water slapping against the wood with hungry, open mouths. Vince stumbles, nearly losing his footing, and I shove him to his knees, so he’s forced to stare into the abyss waiting to claim him. A coil of rope lies discarded there, thick and frayed, smelling of brine and mildew. Forgotten by men who never imagined it would become the perfect noose.
I snatch it up, fingers working fast, steady, looping it around his throat with practiced ease. His muffled cries vibrate against my palm, his body shaking so hard I can feel his terror through every inch of contact. He thrashes, but he’s no fighter—just a coward wrapped in greed and filth. The rope cinches tight, biting into his flesh, and I tie it off with a knot so firm it could tether him to hell itself.
I lean close again, letting the steel kiss his throat one last time as my words brand him deeper than the blade. “Every one of them is waiting for you down there, Vince. Every scream, every tear, every stolen life. Time to join the graves you dug.” I force him forward, his body lurching toward the edge until his toes hang over the slick, rotting planks. The rope bites tight against his throat,secured to the dock’s post like an executioner’s knot. His eyes bulge wide, bloodshot and frantic, terror etched into every trembling line of his face as the truth dawns on him—he knows exactly how this ends.
I kick him off the dock, my boot connecting hard with his back. The force sends him sprawling forward, his body snapping over the edge before gravity drags him down. The splash cracks through the night like thunder, loud and violent in the suffocating silence.
His body thrashes wildly, limbs flailing in the black water as the tide surges, dragging him under again and again. Each time he breaks the surface, gasping and choking, the noose tightens, strangling him as much as the waves. His fists pound against the water, frantic splashes turning weaker with every second, his muffled cries gurgling into nothing as salt and sea choke them off. The ocean hisses and slaps, eager to claim him, pulling him deeper until his panic is just ripples across the surface.
I don’t look away. Never allowing him that mercy. I watch as the bubbles surge from his mouth in frantic bursts, dwindling until the last one breaks the surface and fades. The sea grows calm again, as if nothing happened, as if it hadn’t just devoured a monster. And I think of the boy Vince threw in once, his tiny fists pounding the water in desperation, lungs burning for air that never came. The ocean claimed him too. Tonight, it takes Vince in payment.
Only when I’m sure—when the silence feels final—do I cut the rope, the fibers snapping in my hands as I let his body drift free.The tide will carry him out; deliver him to the same nameless grave he gave so many others. Let him join the ghosts he made, dragged down into the same darkness he forced them into.
One down. Two to go.
Though taking Vince out calms some of the demons gnawing inside me, it’s nowhere near enough. His thrashing, his terror, his final, gurgling breath—it dulled the edge of the blade in my chest for a moment, but only just. The release was fleeting, a single exhale after holding my breath too long. Because the truth is, men like him are everywhere. They crawl out of the woodwork like roaches, feeding off fear, preying on the weak, multiplying faster than they can be cut down. Vince was necessary—an example, a steppingstone—but he was only one, and I’m still starving. The hunger claws at me, feral and insatiable, demanding more. It’s not enough to remove one parasite. I need to tear the whole nest apart.
The entire encounter took less time than it would to sit through a movie, less time than most people waste scrolling through their phones. Which means I still have hours left before dawn bleeds across the horizon, hours left to keep the hunt alive. The thought quickens my blood, the rush of adrenaline drumming through me like war drums. I can almost hear it in my veins—steady, merciless, inescapable. Hours to finish what I started. Hours to deliver judgment to the rest of the names burning a hole in my mind.
If I time it right, if my plan unfolds the way it should, I’ll end the night with three bodies instead of one. Three names wiped clean off the list. Three men who thought they were untouchable, reduced to whispers in the dark. My heart hammers faster justthinking about it, syncing perfectly with the steady rhythm of vengeance. The anticipation sharpens me, focuses me, hones me into something lethal. There’s no room for hesitation. No room for second-guessing.
There’s no time to waste.