Page 124 of Desperate Games

But I’ll stick with my knives. Julio’s threat was personal, and I think his death should be, too.

“Shall we take my car?” Atlas asks.

I rub a hand down my face. Why the fuck not?

“Sure,” I mutter, voicing my thoughts aloud. “Why the fuck not?”

Hours later we’re in Wharton.

A crumbling hovel reeking of mold, piss, and meth dust.

A stash house of sorts.

And it’s filled with the kind of poison the Vipers have been working furiously to keep out of Jersey City.

Powder. Pills. Crystal meth. Guns.

Fuck me, now I see what they’re really doing.

Trafficking.

Men and women who look half-dead clustered together on dirty mattresses. They aren’t just addicts.

They’re merchandise.

“These pieces of shit are selling people,” Ono says.

I nod. And the others get even madder.

My anger grows, and I know now that this is the right move. Undoubtedly.

No one’s going to shed a tear if this place goes up in smoke.

Connor catches my eye, then makes a small gesture with two fingers.

Translation: he’s planting charges.

This place won’t exist by sunrise.

Fine by me. We’ll get the civilians out. Make sure they leave a wide fucking perimeter.

But that’s all the time I have to think about that because I see him.

Julio Castillo.

Strutting like he’s king of the fucking world, even in this filthy fucking shithole.

Andres growls and raises his weapon, but I put a hand up.

My eyes lock on Julio’s position, and blood is roaring in my ears.

Then, the whole world goes quiet.

Like even the trees know—Julio Castillo just ran out of time.

“This motherfucker is mine,” I say.

The words taste like iron on my tongue.