I drove to a 24-hour hardware store three towns over. I walked the aisles under the buzzing fluorescent lights, looking like any other contractor fixing a leak. I bought a roll of heavy-duty plastic sheeting, a box of industrial-strength zip ties, a staple gun, and a hammer. A heavy, claw-style framing hammer. I weighed it in my hand. It felt balanced. Solid.
“Have a good night,” the sleepy teenager at the register mumbled.
“It’s going to be a long one,” I said.
I drove back toward the city. I knew where the Wolf Pack would be on a Friday night. After a big win—and to them, silencing Tessa was a win—they always went to the same place: The Velvet Lounge, a high-end private club downtown that Victor owned.
I parked my truck two blocks away in the shadows of an alley and waited.
At 02:45, the opened. Laughter spilled out onto the street. Dominic and Grant walked out first, loud and stumbling. Then came the others. They were high on adrenaline and expensive liquor. But one was trailing behind.
