Chapter 123: Deals Under The Desks

The ‘Spinning’ Record Store glowed under flickering neon, its sign buzzing in the dusk. Peter and Chris pushed through the door, a bell jangling above. Inside, the air was thick with vinyl and dust, shelves crammed with records—Bowie, Springsteen, The Clash. A few browsers flipped through bins, lost in the music. The place felt alive, legitimate, masking whatever lay beneath.

“Who’s Kane?” Chris whispered, scanning the room.

“Let’s ask,” Peter said, heading for the counter.

A salesgirl, her hair teased high and lipstick stark, greeted them with a bored drawl. “Welcome to Spinning, home of records. Help you?” Her tone screamed she’d rather be anywhere else.

“We’re here for Kane,” Peter said.

She raised a finger, cutting him off, and hit a button on her desk mic. “Got two dicks here for Kane,” she said, voice flat.

“What do they want?” a gruff voice crackled back.

“How should I know?” she snapped.

“Who do they represent?” the voice asked.

“Who sent you?” she asked, eyeing Peter and Chris like they were strays.

“Jinx,” Chris said, catching on.

“They represent Jinx,” she relayed. A green light flared behind her. “Follow me.”

She led them past racks of vinyl, the store’s hum fading as they reached a back corridor.

“Pete, this feels off,” Chris muttered, his hand brushing his concealed pistol.

“Relax,” Peter said, forcing calm. “We’re just grabbing gear. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Everything,” Chris said. “We don’t know these people. What if it’s a setup?”

“We can handle it,” Peter said, flashing a grin, though his gut tightened.

At a metal door, the girl knocked. A slot slid open, eyes peering out. “Here they are,” she said.

“Thanks, love. Scurry off,” the man inside growled. She vanished, heels clicking.

“Invitation?” the voice demanded.

Peter slipped Jinx’s bird-logo card through the slot. The door clicked, swinging wide. They stepped in, and it locked behind them with a heavy thud. The room was dim, smelling of oil and metal. A short, muscular man with a thick beard stood on a stool, his eyes sharp. “Hi thar! Name’s Krig. You are?”

“Peter. This is Chris,” Peter said, sizing him up.

“Jinx shent ya, rite?” Krig’s accent was thick, unplaceable.

“Yeah,” Peter nodded.

“Fallow me,” Krig said, hopping down and leading them deeper.

The corridor was narrow, lined with crates, the air growing colder. Peter’s senses screamed—too quiet, too controlled. Chris’s hand hovered near his gun, his jaw set. They were in deep, and there was no turning back.

.

.

.

Addicus writhed in his bed, fever burning through him, his mind a battlefield. The room reeked of sweat and antiseptic, the maid’s futile attempts to cool him leaving damp cloths scattered. His metamorphosis wasn’t physical—it was a reckoning, his soul tearing itself apart to find its true shape. In his delirium, he was young again, facing the woman who’d scarred him deeper than any whip.

\---

Forty Years Ago...

Addicus stood outside Samantha Logan’s estate, the night thick with summer heat. Crickets chirped, a distant radio playing Moonlight Serenade. The gates creaked open after guards radioed his name through a crackling walkie-talkie. He’d come unannounced, driven by a need he couldn’t name—anger, shame, or something darker.

Inside, Samantha sat at her vanity, brushing her auburn hair, her silk robe slipping slightly. “Close the door,” she said without turning. “Lock it.”

He obeyed, the click loud in the quiet. She met his eyes in the mirror. “What brings you here so late?”

“To see you,” Addicus said, voice steady despite the pistol hidden against his back.

“Why?” Her tone was playful, but her gaze was a predator’s.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “For sending you away today. It wasn’t right.”

“Accepted,” she said, dismissive, returning to her brush. “If that’s all, you know the way out.”

“It’s not,” Addicus said, stepping closer. “I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.”

Her brush paused, a smile flickering. “Is that so?”

“I want what happened at your birthday,” he said, forcing the words out. “I want to please you… and be pleased.”

She stood, facing him, her robe falling open slightly. “I told you you’d beg for more.”

“You were right,” he said, holding her gaze.

“On your knees,” she commanded.

He knelt, her smile widening. “Wait here,” she said, slipping into her playroom. She returned in leather lingerie, whip in one hand, handcuffs in the other. “On the bed.”

Addicus climbed up, her weight pinning him as she straddled him. “You know I must punish you first,” she said, “for earlier.”

“Yes,” he said.

Her whip cracked across his cheek, leaving a stinging welt. “Try again.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he corrected, voice low.

“Better,” she said, tossing him a cuff. “Lock your hand to the bed.”

He took it, hesitating, then snapped it around her wrist instead, flipping her onto the mattress. She gasped as he cuffed her other hand, chaining her to the bedposts.

“What are you doing?” she snarled, struggling.

“Your punishment,” Addicus said, drawing the pistol from his waistband. Its weight felt final.

“Release me!” Samantha demanded, her voice sharp but fraying. “You won’t leave here alive.”

“You think you control me because you raped me?” Addicus said, tears burning. “I’m not your submissive.”

“I freed you,” she spat. “Showed you pleasure you couldn’t dream of.”

“You violated me,” he roared. “Don’t you feel any guilt?”

“None,” she said, smirking. “I’d do it again.”

“Then you won’t hurt anyone else,” he said, screwing a silencer onto the gun.

“Addicus, calm down,” she stammered, fear breaking through. “We can talk.”

“No more talking,” he said, and fired—once in her stomach, then her head. The silenced shots were soft, final.

He stood frozen, her blood pooling, his hands shaking. The house was still, but for how long? He slipped out, the night swallowing his steps, a killer born in silence.

\---

Peter and Chris followed Krig through another door, the air growing heavy with gunpowder and steel. “Don’t stare at me brother’s face too long,” Krig warned, his accent thick. “He don’t like it.”

“What’d he say?” Peter muttered.

“No clue,” Chris replied, tense.

The room opened into an arsenal—rifles, grenades, knives, enough to arm a small army. Seven men lounged against crates, their eyes hard, sizing up the newcomers. Peter’s pulse quickened; this was no simple pickup.

“Brother!” Krig called. “Jinx’s friends are here!”

A man in a swivel chair turned, his scarred face lit by a single bulb. One eye glared, the other a milky ruin. “So, Jinx sent you to cash her favor?” Kane said, taking the bird card from Krig.

Peter nodded, avoiding the scars. “That’s us.”

Kane spat on Peter’s outstretched hand. “Brother don’t shake,” Krig said, grinning.

“You don’t look like you can handle my gear,” Kane said, suspicious.

“We can,” Chris said. “Show us the goods.”

“Prove Jinx sent you,” Kane said. “Action.”

The seven men stood, fists clenched, ready to pounce. Krig cackled, rubbing his hands. “Git ‘em, boys!”

The thugs charged. Peter dodged a fist, landing an uppercut that dropped one. Chris blocked a kick, slamming his attacker into a crate. Peter grunted, as the others grabbed weapons—pipes, knives, a crowbar.