Page 72 of Yours on the Canvas

“Let’s go,” I say. My voice is a low, gravelly rasp that carries the weight of a loaded gun.

We don’t talk on the drive through town. The interior of the truck is filled with a silence heavy and thick with the scent of gun oil, leather, and my own suppressed fury.

My left shoulder still aches beneath my jacket, the sling tossed onto the bed where Jack slept. My stitches pull tight, a dull, pulsing reminder of the ambush just over a week ago. Mack still walks with a limp, having chucked his crutch on the couch the second we walked out. The sharp look Callan gave him told me everything about their dynamic.

My physical pain is nothing compared to the white-hot rage screaming through my nervous system.

Ray thinks he can play god.

He thinks he can reach into my home, break my people, and terrorise my boy.

He is about to find out what happens when a cornered animal stops running and starts tearing flesh.

* * *

We pull up to the motel at the edge of the industrial district where I tracked Ray and Dale. I know that they could afford a five star hotel if they wanted to. I also know they thought hiding in a mid-tier, anonymous shithole would keep them off my radar.

That’s where they screwed up, they underestimated me.

They covered their tracks well, but not well enough. It took me five minutes to find them, and now it’s time to collect.

I climb out of the truck. Callan helps Mack out, and we stand looking up at the building. It’s cheap, the flickering neon sign buzzing overhead, the kind of place where the carpet reeks of damp and bad decisions, the exact kind of rotting hole parasites crawl out of.

“Rook,” Mack says, a heavy hand landing on my shoulder. His dark eyes are sharp, calculating, reading the dangerous, lethal edge in my posture. “We walk in with you to their floor. Callan stays by the elevators to keep everything clear and cut off any exits. But you let us manage everything else. If you murder him in a public corridor, the fallout will bury you, and you’ll never see your boy outside of prison bars.” He fixes me with a hard stare. “Keep it controlled.”

“Controlled time ran out the second he laid a finger on Hale and threatened my boy,” I snap, shrugging his hand off.

Callan sighs while checking his sidearm with quiet, deadly efficiency. “I’ve got the elevator bank and the stairwell. Nobody comes up and nobody goes down unless we say so. Keep your head clear, Silas.”

I ignore him, my eyes cold, matching the drizzle around us as we move like ghosts across the empty car park. Our boots splash through oil-slicked puddles. The air smells like exhaust fumes and wet asphalt.

“Let’s go meet the rat. Mack, you’re on point.”

I’ve already killed what little security cameras they had, and inside isn’t much better. The reception area is empty, no security, no one manning the desk.

Perfect.

We take the stairs, our boots ringing hollow against concrete until we reach the fourth floor. The hallway is narrow, lit by buzzing fluorescent tubes, some flickering with an irritating, frantic hum.

Room 404.

Callan moves to stand by the elevator. Mack follows me closely, staying four doors back to cover my blind spot.

I don’t bother knocking, I’m beyond being polite.

I step up and drive the heel of my boot straight into the cheap wood beside the doorknob. The lock shatters with a sharp crack, the door flying inward and slamming violently against the drywall.

Inside, the room reeks of stale coffee, sweat, and cheap bourbon.

Dale reacts first, his massive frame surging up from the armchair like a guard dog let off the chain. His blank eyes widen for a fraction of a second before hardening into pure violence. But he holds his ground, waiting for a cue.

Interesting.

Ray sits calmly at the small laminate desk, nursing a glass of amber liquid. He doesn’t flinch. He sets the glass down deliberately, a thin, patronising smirk spreading across his lips as he looks up at me.

“Well, look what the stray dog sent,” Ray drawls, his voice dripping with amusement. “I was wondering when you’d show your face, Silas. Though I expected you’d be too busy cleaning up the blood your little boyfriend left behind.”

The rage hits me like a freight train, turning every drop of blood in my body to liquid fire.