Chapter 21

Hunter kept his Harley steady, the engine a low growl beneath him as he shadowed Rex through the desolate heart of a once-promising Seattle neighborhood. His gaze locked on the sleek lines of Rex's bike. The machine, more suited for a race circuit than these cracked streets, glinted under the occasional streetlight. Its brand-new sheen made Hunter want to puke as it was a bitter reminder of its possible funding—corruption and human misery.

Every fiber of Hunter's being tightened as he watched the neon streaks blur past. His fingers clenched around the handlebars. His jaw was set, teeth grinding together in suppressed rage. The back wheel of his bike skidded slightly as he took a corner too sharply. The stench of rubber burning and the protesting screech against the rough asphalt fitted his foul mood.

The neighborhood around them bore the scars of neglect and the weight of despair. The apartment buildings that once stood as beacons of hope and renewal now looked down on streets riddled with the detritus of broken lives. Graffiti tags like battle scars marred every surface, and every shadow seemed to shift with the movements of those forgotten by society. Drug dealers lurked around dimly lit corners, and addicts stumbled around in search of oblivion. Tennis shoes, thrown over power lines, swung like hanged men's last dances, marking territories lost to law and order.

Hunter's throat tightened as he passed a boarded-up row of shops. The stench of cheap food mingled with the sour tang of body odor and the sharp, skunky smell of weed, assaulting his senses as he maneuvered through the streets.

His heart thumped heavily in his chest. As Rex's bike slowed, Hunter's anticipation surged. The tracker on his dashboard dragged him deeper into the labyrinth of alleys and back streets. Could this be it? Was Rex leading him to a critical junction in their twisted enterprises?

The prospect that he might soon face not only Rex, but potentially other key figures in the trafficking ring sent adrenaline and dread through his veins.

On foot now, they neared an especially run-down block, the buildings hunched over them like tired giants, windows hollow and dark.

Rex was onto something, or maybe he knew he was being followed. Hunter tightened his fists, ready for whatever came next, his mission clear but his heart heavy with the weight of what that might entail. He was desperate to salvage what remained of the honor within their ranks.

Hunter crept closer, his senses on high alert as he maneuvered around the skeleton of a condemned building. He placed his feet deliberately, avoiding the crunched beer cans, cigarette buds, brittle pages of yellowed newspapers, and the occasional needle and broken glass. The air was thick with the stench of decay: mildew, rotting garbage, and the sharp, acrid tang of urine. It clung to the walls and saturated the crumbling debris.

Hunter approached Rex cautiously, his eyes scanning the shadows. The quiet was punctuated by the distant sound of traffic, the occasional scurry of rat feet, and the soft drip of water.

Rex's behavior was puzzling. Instead of a rendezvous or a handoff, he seemed to be lurking, almost as if he were afraid or watching for something—or someone—himself. The thought tightened Hunter's chest. Could there be another player they hadn't accounted for?

Silently, Hunter closed the distance, his boots muffled by the layers of grime and debris. He paused, watching Rex's silhouette hunch near a graffiti-covered wall, his movements almost paranoid. Hunter's hand instinctively went to the small of his back, fingers brushing the concealed handle of his gun. The weight of it was reassuring, grounding him amid the uncertainty.

Moving with the stealth of a shadow, Hunter navigated around a pile of broken furniture, his gaze never wavering from the figure ahead. He stopped just behind a tattered piece of wood that that might once had been a garden fence and provided him a sliver of cover. Peering through an opening, Hunter tried to make sense of Rex's actions. Was he waiting for someone, or was he here to destroy evidence? The tension in his shoulders built with each passing second, and dread knotted in his stomach.

From his vantage point, Hunter could see the tension in Rex's posture, the way his head snapped toward every small sound. It was clear Rex felt exposed, maybe even trapped. Hunter's own breathing slowed, his senses sharpening as he prepared to confront whatever truth lay hidden in the decay around them. With a final, silent count to three, Hunter steadied himself, ready to step from the shadows and demand the answers that had eluded them for so long.

Hunter's muscles tensed and he froze as Rex lifted his phone, the screen's glow faintly visible.

Hunter caught the dark silhouette of a van rolling to a stop, its back doors thrown open with a harsh metallic clang. Dim figures—small, fragile forms with bags over their heads—were being herded like cattle by a group of men. Their muffled whimpers and sobs cut through the stillness.

A surge of rage ignited in Hunter's chest, his jaw clenching as he absorbed the grim tableau. The anger was swift and fierce, heating his blood until it nearly boiled with the urge to intervene. But as one of the figures turned, the light catching his features, Hunter's blood turned from lava to ice. Recognition slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. Among the captors was a face Hunter knew all too well—a man he had once considered a brother.

Overwhelmed by betrayal and fury, Hunter's control snapped. His fist collided with the concrete wall beside him, the impact resonating through the empty building. The sound was a gunshot in the quiet, making Rex jolt and nearly lose his grip on the phone.

The moment shattered the last of Hunter's restraint. As Rex stumbled, trying to recover, Hunter's every instinct screamed for action. His hand ached from the force of his punch, but it was nothing compared to the blistering trail of rage that demanded justice.