Billy didn’t go straight back to his safe house. That was the first place they’d look. Instead, he weaved through the industrial district, moving between alleys and abandoned buildings, his mind racing.
Blackthorn knew he was alive. That changed everything.
He needed allies—people he could trust. But trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Not in this game.
Billy reached a secluded rooftop overlooking the city’s underbelly. From here, he could see the distant glow of high-rise towers, the stark contrast between the rich and the damned. Somewhere down there, Blackthorn was waiting.
His pocket buzzed. A secure line.
He pulled out the burner phone and answered.
Silence. Then a voice, smooth as silk.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“You’ve made quite the mess, Knight.”
Billy’s grip tightened. Blackthorn.
“Figured we should talk,” Blackthorn continued. “Face-to-face. No more middlemen.”
Billy’s gaze darkened. “You expect me to just walk into your den?”
A low chuckle. “Not quite. I’m sending you a location. Neutral ground. No tricks.” A pause. “I want you alive, Billy. If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Billy didn’t respond.
A soft ding—a message alert. The location had been sent.
Blackthorn’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Tick-tock, Knight. Clock’s running out.”
The line went dead.
Billy checked the message. A coordinates link. He tapped it.
A name popped up.
The Crimson Club.
Billy’s jaw clenched. That wasn’t neutral ground. That was enemy territory.
The Crimson Club was Blackthorn’s playground. A high-end nightclub masking an empire of crime. Deals were made there. Wars started there. And anyone who walked in uninvited rarely walked out.
Billy exhaled. He had two choices—go in and face the devil or run and let the shadows swallow him.
There was no choice at all.
If Blackthorn wanted a meeting, Billy would give him one.
But on his terms.
He disappeared into the night, heading toward war.
