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The second I pulled off the county road and onto the gravel lane, my gut started muttering that this was a bad idea.
The GPS had cut out five minutes back. The trees were thick, branches arching overhead like they were conspiring to keep secrets. I followed the directions Maurice had texted—mile marker, rusted gate with no sign, “don’t miss it, Post”—until the beams of my headlights hit old brick and broken glass.
The distillery.
Or what used to be one.
The main building loomed out of the dark—long, low, brick scarred by decades, windows bricked in or busted out, metal piping that didn’t go anywhere anymore. An ancient smokestack stabbed at the sky, black against the stars. It looked like a place you’d dare each other to break into as teenagers, not somewhere grown adults with functioning prefrontal cortices voluntarily drove to.
But there were cars.
Not the beat-up pickups from the old livestock barn. Not a handful of sedans. The gravel lot was lined with shine—twenty, maybe more, high-end rides glinting under the makeshift floodlights someone had set up. Escalades, a couple of G-wagons, low-slung sports cars whose names I didn’t know but whose price tags I could guess.
And their drivers.
Men in dark jackets stood near their vehicles, silhouettes sharp and watchful. Some had the posture that says concealed carry without needing to flash anything. This wasn’t a bunch of locals who’d wandered out for a thrill. This was money, and the people who protected it.
I eased my truck into a spot at the far edge, killed the engine, and sat there for a second with my hands on the wheel.
Too late to back out now.
I grabbed my gym bag from the passenger seat and stepped out into the cool night. The air smelled like wet leaves, old brick, and faintly—if I let myself imagine hard enough—ghosts of mash and alcohol seeping out of the building’s bones.
The entrance wasn’t the crumbling front door. Someone had rigged a side access with a newer steel door, the paint clean, hinges oiled. A single industrial floodlight beamed down over it, harsh and white.
And hanging above that, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor, was a chandelier.
Not an old one, either. This was modern—big, gaudy, all chrome and crystal drops that threw little splinters of light over the brick. It looked like it had been ripped from some rich person’s foyer and bolted here just to prove it could be.
“Subtle,” I muttered.
A guy in black jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt stood by the door, scrolling on his phone. He barely glanced up as I approached.
“Post?” he asked, voice bored.
“Yeah.”
He tapped something on his screen, then opened the door with his shoulder. “You’re up third. Don’t wander.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, and stepped inside.
The contrast sucker-punched me.
Outside: abandoned distillery, rust, rot. Inside? Money.
The old concrete floor had been scrubbed clean and polished, the cracks still there but gleaming under the light. The main distilling hall had been gutted—no more tanks, no more pipes—with a massive open space carved out. In the center of it stood the cage.
It wasn’t a professional MMA cage—not the nice kind you saw on TV. This was welded chain-link and steel, eight sides, bolted straight into the concrete. No padding on the posts. No soft edges. Bright portable lights on stands surrounded it, aimed down so hard it was like a miniature sun.
Nothing in that circle was going to be missed. Not a drop of sweat, not a flinch, not a single hit. And most importantly, not one drop of blood.
Around it, the rest of the distillery had been transformed into something between a private club and a nightmare.
Pop-up bars lined one wall—folding tables, sure, but covered in black linen and loaded with top-shelf bottles. Whiskey in heavy decanters, vodka that came in frosted glass, tequila with hand-painted labels. Crystal tumblers and flutes were stacked beside metal buckets of ice. When I squinted, I saw champagne—not the cheap stuff, either. Names I recognized from bachelor parties I’d never be able to afford.
No beer kegs. No red Solo cups. This wasn’t that crowd.
This crowd… yeah. They were different.
