He nods fast. “Got it.”
“Only them unless it’s an emergency and Doc needs help.”
Another nod. “Yes. Got it.”
“Anyone else tries?”
He swallows. “I stop them.”
I step closer. His face loses color. “You call me,” I say.
Relief and fear hit him at the same time. “Right. Call you.”
Better.
I move down the hall, but every step away from the infirmary pulls tight across my shoulders. I tell myself it’s security. I tell myself it’s because Olivia is targeted, because someone had a folder on her, because her name and routine and family details were in a van with syringes and zip ties. That’s all true.
It’s just not all of it.
The clubhouse sounds different now. Muted. Everyone knows something happened. The women’s voices stay lower. The kids are being kept to the far side of the main room, away from the hall, away from the downstairs door. Jason’s voice carries for half a second, high and irritated about something only a five year old would think matters during a crisis, before Emma hushes him softly.
Life keeps moving.
Even when ugliness crawls through the gate.
I pass through the main room without stopping. Mac watches me from beside Logan’s office door, Knox half-asleep against her chest. Kya has Remy tucked close, though the kid is fighting her like he has business to handle.
Blaze is waiting near the door to the lower level, arms crossed, mouth tighter than usual. He still looks like he wants to say something. He always looks like he wants to say something. He doesn’t. That tells me how ugly this is going to get. “Logan’s downstairs,” he says.
“I know.”
“Joker’s been smiling for ten minutes.”
“Not my problem.”
Blaze falls into step beside me as I pull open the basement door. “That’s where you’re wrong, brother. When Joker smiles like that, it becomes everyone’s problem.”
I don’t answer.
The air changes halfway down the stairs. Cooler. Damp around the edges. The clubhouse above is family, noise, food, leather, smoke. Down here is concrete, old pipes, metal, and men who know exactly what rooms like this are for. The cage is at the far end.
Not a literal cage, not anymore, though the name stuck from older days. It’s a reinforced room with a drain in the floor, one chair bolted down, and enough soundproofing to keep the women and kids from hearing what needs to happen when men like us need answers.
Logan stands outside it when I reach the bottom. Cain is with him, arms folded, face hard. Shadow leans against the opposite wall, silent and unreadable. Hammer is inside the room, checking restraints. Joker stands in the corner near the sink, hands loose at his sides, head slightly tilted as he watches the man in the chair.
He’s smiling. Not wide. Not wild. Worse. Pleased.
The surviving man is tied down hard, wrists locked to the arms of the chair, ankles bound to the legs. His face is swollen from the street. One eye already puffing shut. Blood crusted along his mouth and nose. He’s breathing hard, trying not to look scared, which means he’s scared as hell. Especially after watching us dispose of the other three like trash.
Good.
Fear opens doors. Pain keeps them open.
Logan looks at me as I stop beside him. “You good?”
“No.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen. “That a problem?”
