CHAPTER 68
For half a second, IswearI see it—his face just as I left it in the fantasy.
Mouth a ruin. Gums exposed. Blood seeping from the raw holes where his teeth used to be.
His lips move, forming no sound. Just wet gurgling from the back of his throat.
I blink—and it’s gone.
Just Nathaniel Mercer again, clean-cut and intact.
But his eyes still hold that knowing glint.
As if he can smell the smoke from the fire I haven’t lit yet.
I straighten in my seat, smooth my skirt with hands that don’t shake, and clear my throat.
“Your Honor,” I say evenly, calmly, like I haven’t just imagined pulling twenty-two of his teeth out, “Mr. Mercer has previously faced multiple allegations involving the use of sedatives against women, followed by acts of violence. Each case was dismissed for reasons unrelated to merit. The state believes he presents a substantial and ongoing threat. We request that bond be denied.”
The judge pauses. Considers.
“Bond denied,” she says firmly, gavel coming down with a satisfying crack.
Mercer’s jaw tightens.
Just slightly.
I should be disturbed by what I imagined. I should feel something sharp or broken inside me. But all I feel is clear.
Like fog burned off by morning sun.
As the bailiff begins to escort him out, Mercer glances over his shoulder—then leans slightly into the aisle. Just enough so only I can hear.
That grin. Wide. Menacing. Teeth still intact—for now.
“I’ll see you soon, sweetheart” he says, voice low and slick with threat.
I don’t flinch. Don’t blink.
I just smile.
Sweet. Pleasant.
Almost excited.
“Actually,” I say softly, “you might.”
His expression falters for a fraction of a second.
And I sit there, warm and sunny, watching him vanish through the door with a heart full of storm.
The day of the raid feels less like gearing up for an op and more like surviving a hostage negotiation.
Except the hostage is my sanity.
And the negotiator is Paty fucking Hartwell.
Trying to control Paty is like trying to nail a hurricane to the floor.
She’s not a cop or armed.
She’s not supposed to be here.
But try telling her that—then following it with ayou should stay back—and you might as well start writing your own eulogy.
I exhale through my nose, short and sharp, as we sit in the van. The tech team is already hunched over their screens.
Small task force.
Remote surveillance.
Minimal visible presence until we have hard evidence.
The auction’s set in the brothel’s basement—disguised on the books as a “wellness club,” which is probably the most limp-dicked but effective cover I’ve ever seen.
If everything goes right tonight, we’ll rip the whole operation out by the roots.
Paty’s on the bench seat across from me, her knee bouncing so fast it’s a blur.
The screens flicker—grainy black-and-white feeds from hidden cameras wired into the ducts and outlets.
I watch her from under my lashes as the first guests arrive.
Men in expensive suits.
Diamond cufflinks.
Loafers that cost more than our precinct’s entire budget.
Politicians. Attorneys. Judges.
Faces I’ve seen preaching justice and morality.
Paty leans forward, face pale, fingers tight in her lap.
I see the exact moment she recognizes someone—a sharp, visible flinch. Two of them, actually.
Both attorneys she’s worked with.
One sat beside her on a sex-crimes prosecution, beaming like a saint the whole time.
I want to reach across the van, take her hand, tell her she’s not crazy for feeling betrayed.
But the words die.
She meets my eyes for a second—then looks away.
That flicker cuts deeper than it should.
Before I can unpack that, the screens flash?—
Then go black.
“What the hell?” a tech barks, scrambling toward the laptop.
“Remote uplink’s dead. They found the relay, or it got fried.”
The room turns cold.
If we can’t reestablish surveillance, the whole op folds.
No evidence. No arrests.
“We have a backup transmitter,” one tech offers. “But someone needs to plug it into the main router.”
Christ. Walk in blind. Hope you don’t get recognized by someone you’ve passed in court.
Before I can speak, Paty’s already moving.
“I’ll go,” she says, rising.
“I remember where the utility closet is.”
“No,” I snap, stepping between her and the gear. “I’ve got it.”
Without waiting for her argument, I grab the transmitter and shut the van door behind me.
Inside, I move fast and low through the brothel, hugging walls and avoiding cracked doors leaking laughter and music.
I find the closet—same hallway where I had to play Mr. Suave with what’s-her-face.
The door creaks open. Slatted wood. Turning on the light would be like lighting up a billboard.
I click on my flashlight, fix it between my teeth, and aim it at the router.
The backup transmitter is warm in my hands, every second ticking louder in my skull.
I crouch low. Start the swap.
Halfway through, footsteps echo down the hall.
“The internet in this shithole pisses me off.”
The voice is getting closer.
Fast.
Coming straight for me.
Shit.
I kill the flashlight and flatten into the shadows, heart pounding so hard I can feel it rattling against my ribs. The footsteps get closer. Too close. I’m cornered.
No clean way out without blowing the whole thing sky-high.
I tighten my fists, ready to drop whoever steps around the corner, when I hear a bright, nervous voice that clenches my stomach like a vice.
“Hello?”
Motherfucking Paty.
Every hair on my body stands up.