“Hurry up and report the address on the cup to your boss,” I say. “Since she’s always talking about making prison deals, maybe she’ll make you one.”
End of Episode 12
Undeserved Mercy
EPISODE 13
Ryder
Rush Banks is renting out a private estate that faces the Puget Sound.
Overly lavish, it’s secluded by the hills, hidden behind towering rock formations and gates that look older than the city itself. A fortress disguised as a weekend retreat. It’s where they’re celebrating my demise before they act on it this weekend.
Breaking one of the rules my father taught me when I was six:
Finish the work before celebrating. Never a second before.
I bring the phone to my ear.
“You’ll need to make it look like they fought first the moment we’re done.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hang up and swallow. My pulse ticks at my temple as I count down from ten. Nine... eight... seven...
When I get to three, one of my men steps into view near the far hedge line and gives the signal.
Rest in hell.
I step out of the car and head inside, Chester behind me.
Keeping my steps quiet, I move down the hall, straight for the dining room. The air grows heavier with each step—warmer, tighter, like it remembers what happened the last time I walked toward a table full of people who never saw it coming.
I slow at the edge of the doorway, pausing in the shadows.
They’re all there.
Rush Banks sits at the head of the table, laughing.
Salt-and-pepper hair, slicked back like he’s still thirty. Pale grey eyes—cold and calculating—cut through the flicker of candlelight. There’s a ruthless stillness in the way he holds himself, like violence is his second skin, like he’s never had to raise his voice to make someone disappear.
The man who made me an orphan.
The man who’s spent years hunting me like I’m a missing piece of his empire.
The man who thinks what he stole is still his.
I set the timer on my watch. Check my chamber. Signal to Chester, who gives a slow, measured nod.
Then we move.
Our gunfire cracks through the air—controlled, relentless. We aim for heads and chests first, giving no room for response. No time to reach for weapons. No time to scream. Just impact and collapse.
Rush dives from his chair, scrambling for the gun at his side, but Chester fires first—straight through his hand. The weapon skids across the tile, useless.
The rest of the men fall like dominos. I’ve run this scenario too many times in my head to miss. Each shot is clean. Intentional.
When the final bullet falls, only two are left breathing: Rush and the henchman slumped to his left.
