Page 34 of Blackwood

The man whimpers. Zeke looks at Tex and gives him a small nod. Tex moves, silent as death. The man starts praying in German.

Zeke turns to me, unbothered, voice flat. “You get all that?”

I nod.

“Good.” He holsters his gun, already moving. “We’re not done yet. Now you get to learn how to plan an op.”

We turn. Behind me, light. Just a clean, controlled flash. I barely hear the shot, but I feel the silence that follows.

Chapter 13

ZEKE – Age 19

Warehouse 27-B

Queens, New York

There’s a reason I never wanted her here. Not because she couldn’t handle it. Because she could.And that’s what scares the living shit out of me. Warehouse 27-B looks like every other godforsaken hole we’ve hit—rotting siding, busted cameras, and the smell of desperation baked into the walls. But tonight, it’s different.

Tonight, she’s here.

Two guards down. Two left. One buyer. One seller.

“East corridor’s clear,”Tex says in my ear.“Last two are yours.”

I slow my steps just enough to catch their voices, Morales and the seller, still arguing over shipment weight and payment splits like this is a goddamn stock exchange and not a trafficking deal.

Bella’s breath hitches in my ear. She isn’t out here with me. She’s in the van, headset on, watching every hijacked feed we could rip from their system. I wasn’t about to bring her into a mission where the target wasn’t already zip-tied and crying.

“Morales on the left,”Nate mutters over the comms.“Suit. Smug asshole. Cartel crest tattooed on his neck. Seller’s the twitchy one near the crate. Go slow.”

I step out of the shadows, gun raised. “Evening, gentlemen.”

They both spin. Morales sizes me up with the kind of look that’s gotten men killed in parking lots. I let him have it. The moment, the illusion, the last breath.

“You’re Elias Morales,” I say. “Cartel accountant, part-time bottom-feeder, soon-to-be floor decoration.”

He scoffs. “You think you’re funny?”

“I think I’m hilarious,” I shrug. “And I also think that your head exploding might be the highlight of my night.”

He lifts his gun.

CRACK.

Tex’s shot slices through the air from across the street.

One bullet, left eye.

Morales drops.

“Told you,” I mutter.

I hear Bella gasp in the comm feed.

The seller stumbles back like a busted Roomba, keys rattling as he spins to run. I lift my Glock. “Ah-ah. Take one more step and I’ll turn your kneecaps into confetti.”

He freezes. Smart rat.