27. Isaac

CHAPTER 27

ISAAC

I survey the floor from my usual upstairs spot, soaking in the chaos, the loud music, and the drunk laughter. Occasionally, through the twirling club lights, Hawk comes into view. His movements are precise and almost hypnotic as he handles the rowdy weekend crowd. He fits in seamlessly as if he's always belonged here. With the rest of us. With the rest of the Hellhounds living in the underbelly of Purgatory.

My mind drifts off and yesterday's encounter with him in the deserted corridor comes flooding back.

I was grappling with intense, residual emotions and yearning after what had happened in my office. The blaze inside me simply refused to be extinguished. Like magnets drawn to each other, we surrendered ourselves to this madness. I pushed him against the wall and kissed him stupidly. The thrill of being discovered had kicked my adrenaline into overdrive. I was hard in seconds. This arousal clings stubbornly even now as an uninvited guest.

"Boss," Jeremy says over the noise, appearing at my side and breaking my concentration. "We need to talk." He looks tired and worn out.

"About what?" I ask, not taking my eyes off Hawk.

"Something important," Jeremy insists, his voice mixing with the pounding of the bass lines. He follows my line of vision and I’m momentarily stuck between the rush of being caught and guilt.

Guilt over being so fucking distracted because of Hawk when Jessica’s still in the hospital. Thankfully, last night she came to and Jeremy spent all night by her side.

I shift my attention to him. "Let's go to my office," I shout over the music.

As we move away from the railing and enter the private space, I immediately regret my decision. All my mind can think of is Hawk’s lips stretched around my cock and the way his mouth felt when he deep-throated me. He has impressive skills.

"Alright," I say, closing the door behind us and leaning against the desk. "What's going on, J?"

"I’ve got some intel..." Jeremy starts, but then hesitates. For a moment, he looks conflicted, torn between some obscure forces. But ultimately, I don't need him to spell it out for me. The knots in my stomach already tell me that this isn't good news that will follow. I sense it with my gut. A cursed but useful habit I developed while in prison.

"Spit it out, J," I urge him quietly.

We’re all on edge and I feel like I’m tearing at the seams because of all the unknown variables. Because of the puzzle around me I can’t solve.

"Alright… But listen to me, Blade," he rasps out. "Just listen for once." He exhales deeply as if to give me a moment to prepare. "Word on the street, the Feds are sniffing around."

Fuck.

That’s my brain’s initial reaction. "Go on," I prompt him calmly. No need to panic just yet. Right?

"Looks like someone's talking to the cops, Isaac," he says before going eerily quiet again—leaving only the high-pitched silence lingering between us. "I told you Solovey was trouble. We had it under control—squeaky clean—before he showed up. The Russian’s bringing too much heat, man. Shit started going sideways when he showed up."

I nod, my mind making various calculations, racing through countless scenarios and probable answers.

"You know who else showed up recently?" Jeremy hisses out.

I don’t react but on the inside, I’m all tense.

"Cody Smith." He spits out Hawk’s name like it’s the piss someone spiked his drink with while he wasn’t looking. "I'm telling you he's the one with the loose mouth."

There’s silence in the room. Dark, suffocating silence. Up until now, I refused to see it. In my line of work, things happen. And Hawk happened in the most interesting time for my crew. Coincidence?

"Who told you about the Feds?" I’m still skeptical about the legitimacy of Jeremy’s sources. But he grew up on the street. He knows people who know shit.

"The entire fucking Enclave is talking about it and half of Morelli’s guys."

The Enclave guys are glorified hipsters with fancy cars. I don’t mingle with the likes of them. But I don’t tell Jeremy who to be friends with. But the Italians? "You know better than to talk to Tony’s crew," I warn. We don’t cross paths unless necessary. The peace between the Thoreau and the Morelli is built on old blood and current mutual avoidance. The young don’t do business. Only the old.

"I heard it in passing," Jeremy says. "Wasn’t approaching anyone on purpose."

My mind continues to churn. So does my gut.

"Boss," Jeremy whispers. "The Enclave is always the last one to find out about shit but if they’re in on it, then it’s not just some BS."

Sadly, he’s right.

"Come on, Blade. Don’t be fucking weak. You know Hawk is bad news. We been fucked left and right ever since he stepped foot into Purgatory. My sources are solid. I can feel it too. The Russian is too big of a fish for the Feds not to get involved."

"Okay, let’s say you’re right. Let’s say there’s a rat. Either way, we can't let this distract us from our main objective."

"Of course not," Jeremy agrees. "We just need to be careful, that's all. I think putting a hold on the next shipment to Toro is wise. We can't afford to take any unnecessary risks right now."

"He won’t be happy if the deliveries stop," I counter. "And you’ve seen what can happen if Toro isn’t happy." I don’t elaborate but we both know I’m referring to the incident with the axe last year when we witnessed the man’s thirst for blood firsthand.

"Blade, come on."

"Just do as I say."

"Fine," Jeremy relents, raising his hands in a placating gesture and slowly stepping back toward the door. "But don’t tell me I didn’t warn you when the law knocks on our door with a warrant. Or worse—to arrest us all."

I don’t comment. My mind is preoccupied with the new information. But mostly I’m trying to rationalize and maybe even justify Hawk’s appearing at the club right before shit for my boys and me started to go sideways.

Later that night, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed in my condo and staring at the city lights outside my window, trying to find some solace in their distant glow. But there's no comfort to be found, not with the weight of Jeremy's words still pressing down on me. The risk–it's always been there, lying in wait just beneath the surface of our lives.

And now, for the first time ever, I’m contemplating the path I've tread.

There’s no understanding why. Maybe because a part of me yearns to disregard Jeremy’s judgment. To convince myself that Hawk is real.

At least he felt real the other night when he was next to me, warm and naked. Or when he sucked my cock in the office of Purgatory a few days later.

Am I being blind? I ask myself in the privacy of my mind. The thought flies into the darkness, but there's no answer, only the oppressive silence that's come to define my existence on nights like this.

I run my hands through my hair and exhale a heavy sigh, suddenly feeling as if I'm suffocating within the confines of my own skin.

"Fuck," I mutter, pushing myself up from the bed and pacing the room. My thoughts race, each more chaotic than the last, until they're all I can hear—a messy blend of doubts and fears that threatens to drown out everything else. And amidst it all, one thing becomes painfully clear: I can't keep going like this. First, it’s Jessica. Then it’ll be someone else.

Things have to change.

I just don’t know what yet.

Several days pass, and the tension within me only grows, fueled by my newfound awareness of the fragility of our situation. On one hand, we have Russian oligarch Solovey and on the other end of this thread, there’s a cartel’s madman Toro.

And we can’t make either one of them angry.

That would be suicidal.

Instead, I throw myself into work with a single-minded intensity, tearing through tasks with a manic focus bred from desperation, hoping for a distraction. After all, Purgatory won’t run itself and I’m not just a poster boy. But it's a futile effort–my thoughts are never far from the danger that surrounds us. Or Hawk, whose presence in the club is like a six-foot-one reminder of my growing obsession.

I tell myself to keep my distance. Yet, again, I end up sneaking into the empty break room right before his shift. What self-control was preaching just seconds ago gives way once again to unruly desires.

I escape into his arms, kissing him like we're two stars drawn into an inevitable collision course. Our mouths meld together and he tastes both desperate and divine—the flavor one encounters when they’re teetering dangerously close to surrendering all reason.

And the risk of being discovered like this keeps stoking fires inside me.

And after I’ve had enough to tide me over another day, I take my silent exit. I slink into my dark world where rules made for the masses are meant to broken, where we have our own rules, where I have people collecting information on Cody Smith. But he’s real. Palpable and bone-deep authentic in his black suit and with his stoic expression.

He’s as real as it gets. At least on paper, and Jeremy’s words ring hollow in my head.

It’s jealousy , I tell myself.

Jealousy and coincidence.

Then shit unfurls.

Late one evening, as I step foot into my office, a neatly creased piece of paper flaunts itself brazenly from the dark expanse of my desk. Like an insolent wink.

Tucci's next "shipment" arrives tomorrow. 600 E 11th St. 10 PM, the note reads when I unfold it.

And then I look at the signature on the bottom in small neat letters.

Someone who wants to help your cause.

What the fuck!

My heart stutters in my chest. A strange mix of anger and anxiety shoots through me. This could be the break we've been waiting for–the evidence we need to bring Tucci down once and for all. To eliminate the fucker.

But nagging questions immediately rush through my head.

Who played postman?

Was he the one who wrote the note too?

Why is this person wanting to help my cause?

What’s his gain?

And the more I think about it, the more I realize it’s someone on the inside. Someone who knows about my beef with Tucci, someone who knows I want him gone for good. Someone who even possibly guesses why.

My heart's drumming a wild beat in my chest as I dart over to the security footage. Pulling it up, I scan it with desperate hope. It spits back nothing but static shots of an empty office, then figures—most of my crew. They all have access to the office. It could be anyone; Ricky, Jeremy, Flynn, Hawk.

My gut twists. The words on the note burn themselves into my mind. I don’t know if I should believe them. But if that’s true, this could be my chance to prove Tucci's a fucking snake. The risk is great, but the potential reward is greater.

Drawing out my phone from my pocket, I punch Jeremy's number with practiced fingers. "I need you here."

He’s in my office in ten minutes.

"We've got a lead on Tucci's next shipment." I hand him the note. "I don't know if it's what I think it is but it's worth checking out."

His sharp eyes scrutinize the creased paper under muted lighting for what seems an eternity before his gaze returns to mine.

"You know who left it?" he asks, his voice heavy with skepticism.

"No."

"It’s a trap, Blade," he concludes.

"And if not?"

Jeremy shakes his head. "Someone is messing with you."

"Bit too upfront for an ambush."

"Not sold on it, boss."

"I don’t like it either," I admit, the icy edge of reality brushing indiscreetly against my senses.

He quickly glances up at me as he passes the note back, his dark eyes meeting mine again. We stare at each other for a few heartbeats, then I say, "Let's round up the crew." Pause. "And make sure Hawk's with us on this one."

Jeremy lets out a sound of discontent that is difficult to pinpoint. After a moment, he responds with a tense expression. "Alright. Whatever you say, man. You’re the boss."

"And send Hector to check it out tomorrow first thing in the morning."

The following night our convoy of four vehicles speeds toward the private airport outside the city. I’m in the passenger seat next to Jeremy. He’s driving. Flynn and Hawk are in the back and Hawk’s presence has me nearly shaking. Tension coils tight in my chest from his proximity.

A few stolen moments in the hotel elevator today was all I could afford with all the shit going on.

A piece of me yearns to reach out, to trail my fingertips along his silhouette just to confirm he’s real, not some ethereal ghost slipping away in the night. Yet another part of me, a more rational, mind-saving fragment, tells me to rein in my desires, cautioning against any overt act that would make it too obvious.

My window is down and the night air whips around us inside the car, hot and unforgiving, as if trying to warn us of the danger. The thing is danger is all we know. The headlights ahead of us stretch out into the desert like mystic fingers, reaching for something they can never grasp.

"Almost there, boss," Jeremy comments, his gaze locked onto the navigation's bright glow, his voice steady as he cruises the winding road, maneuvering around the sandy boulders.

"Good," I reply curtly, my attention fixed on the dark horizon, searching for any sign of the airport. "Everyone good to go?" I ask into the void. Ricky and Hawk murmur affirmative from the back seat.

I grab my phone and dial Hector, who is in the car behind. "You sure there’s no security?

"None whatsoever, boss," he re-confirms what he already told me earlier. "The cameras they have are all busted up. For show. And no guards."

We've been doing this long enough. Still, my heart continues to thrum. This mission feels different–more critical, more personal. What if Jeremy is right and this is a trap? And yet, my gut tells me the words on the note left in my office aren’t some sick game.

I guess there’s only one way to find out.

"Look." Flynn points toward the sky as I kill the call.

And sure enough, as we round a bend in the road, we catch sight of what looks like a cargo plane descending in the direction of the tiny airport. Its landing lights flicker like fallen stars, throwing eerie shadows across the dry Nevada landscape. It’s one of those private spots in the middle of nowhere surrounded by miles and miles of desert, sandy hills, and plants. Impossible to find online. Unless you look at the map closely enough, knowing what you’re after.

I glance at my watch. It’s fifteen to ten. Early. But my intuition says this is the right plane.

Jeremy slams his foot on the gas and our SUV leaps forward eagerly. Tires chew up gravel, spitting sand behind us in a wild cascade.

A fence limits the airport periphery, but thanks to Hector's early morning mischief, it isn't going to be much of an issue. An easy target—a tempered section of wire barrier—looms ahead. The SUV charges onward without hesitation, smashing through in an echoing baritone crash that scatters birds and other wildlife nesting nearby.

The vehicles spin and skid toward a single row of hangars.

From this point on, things happen fast.

Above our heads, the discordant rumble announces arrival—not ours. A plane soars overhead racing its shadow over ours as it angles toward the lone strip of asphalt dictating its descent.

The bird kisses the ground with a rugged rattle just as our vehicles fan out from behind the hangars. That’s their first clue we’re here and we’ve got them cornered.

The guys loitering near the runaway— maybe ten or fifteen of them—are too cocky to see it coming until they're stuck in our crosshairs.

My boots hit the hot, sun-drenched asphalt as I leap out of the SUV along with the rest of my crew.

My eyes are scanning for Tucci. Sure enough, he's exactly where I thought he'd be—skulking behind two towering figures as if they could shield him from what’s coming.

I stride toward him without hesitation, offering a devilish grin that reflects the madness in me. The madness Jacob created. The madness that never left. And it’s about to come out in a terrifying display of vengeance.

"Long time no see, huh?" I throw at Tucci, halting to a stop at a safe distance. Jeremy is by my side, armed with an AK. Flynn and Hector concentrate on the plane. The rest of my crew rounds up Tucci’s men into a line and has them kneeling. They seem clueless as to what’s going on, dropping to the ground without a fight. Cheap hired guns, judging by their faces. Cheap and probably not very reliable when it comes to life and death situations.

Tucci is staring at me from behind his useless human wall. Fucking excuse of muscle and meat. He knows he’s done for.

I throw a look at Jeremy; my silent command sends half our boys streaming toward Tucci in a human flurry. The guys guarding him offer no resistance.

"Seems like your money didn't buy you everything." My voice drips with ridicule as Ricky and Seven herd him into submission. He buckles; his face taut with pain that paints a grim satisfaction in the air.

"That’s where loyalty trumps," I grind out, advancing till my boot heel cuts into his wrist sprawled on the sizzling asphalt. "But hey, how would you know? You’ve been running dry on that front."

Tucci answers only in a gritted-teeth symphony of anguish.

"Load him up," I order and remove my boot from his hand, then turn around and head in the direction of the cargo that just landed. For now, Tucci isn’t important. My boys will throw him into the back of the SUV until it’s time to talk to him again.

I need to see the shipment for myself.

The plane's cargo door opens, and like a grotesque parade, young girls stumble out, their eyes wide with fear. My stomach turns as I see a couple of boys among them, no older than thirteen or fourteen.

"Fuck," I whisper under my breath, clenching my fists so tightly that my nails bite into my palms. This is worse than I'd anticipated. There are just too many of them and they are all underage judging by their looks.

"What the hell are we going to do with them?" Jeremy asks, his voice tight.

I glance at him as if he can possibly have the answer to his own question.

"Don’t even suggest we play foster parents," he jokes with half his heart. "Purgatory’s daycare service ain’t got no room."

"We gonna have to call the authorities. We’re not equipped to help these kids. We’re here for one thing only. Tucci."

"Shit. Okay. If you say so."

"Make that call and let’s roll before they arrive."

I march over to the SUV and my eyes flicker over to the kids herded together and shivering in fear. Their wide-eyed stares drill into me, ice-cold needles boring into my soul and thawing an unusual sentiment within—the anxious weight of being responsible for their tomorrows. No, I can't be their saving grace. The under-the-table work or protection that I could possibly offer isn't going to cut it anymore. Not when there are so many of them. I'm already risking it by taking care of Marina.

This gig is bigger—something only the U.S government has any hope of fixing. They’re bound for some decent place eventually; transfer papers in hand, a competent attorney should be upturning every stone for their case soon. They have got a fighting chance in there.

"Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!" Jeremy's voice echoes through the night as we quickly evaporate into the shelter of our vehicles. Like ghosts retracting back into shadows—as stealthy and unseen as we were on our arrival.

It’s only when we clear the airport limits do I feel my senses slowly returning. Resurrection from some sort of sensory death. Behind me, Hawk’s existence begins to imprint itself again, a tangible entity in the back seat–quiet and immobile. A glance over my shoulder could reveal our secret, yet I can’t resist.

I need to see him.

Need to know he’s fine.

It's an emotion more potent than anything I’ve known—striking terror deep into my core.

We drive then. Drive in near-silence until we reach a stretch of land outside the city housing yet another Thoreau building. The SUV tires screech impatiently as we pull up to the warehouse. The night air is heavy and foreboding when we file out. My heart pounds in my chest, a relentless drumbeat of adrenaline matching the tempo of my anger. Jeremy and Hector help Ricky to drag Tucci out of the other vehicle.

"Get him inside!" I command, my voice tight with suppressed fury as I pause for a second in front of the entrance.

They waste no time, shoving him through the warehouse doors and into an empty, poorly lit space.

The rest of my guys follow inside.

"Let me go, you motherfucker!" Tucci squeals, his bravado returning despite the fear lurking in his eyes. "Let me go, Blade! Or you’re gonna pay for it!"

I don’t react.

I need a second. A second to get my wits together because I know whatever happens next is going to unravel my already fragile relationship with Maurice, a relationship built on nothing but lies. Lies he’s been keeping to himself all these years for one reason only—I’m useful.

A hand lands on my shoulder. "You okay?" Hawk asks.

It’s only me and him here with the exception of two guys working the perimeter. But their eyes aren’t on me. Their eyes are on the sunless desert landscape. And even if they spot us, they can’t tell what’s going on from a distance. They’ll see a boss and an employee talking. Not two men with a dirty shared secret.

I turn to look at Hawk, our gazes meet in the darkness and something passes between us. Something equally sick and good. It’s almost physical. Like I can touch it if I can concentrate hard enough.

And then Jeremy’s warning rings in my head.

You know who else showed up recently?

Cody Smith.

And the moment is broken immediately.

Am I really a fool not to see this? Or is it Jeremy’s jealousy?

Again, also one way to find out.

"Isaac?" Hawk whispers.

"Let’s get this over with," I grit out through my teeth, my resolve hardening. There’s no time for sentimental bullshit right now.

I head into the warehouse without another word.

He follows.

There, my crew has already tied Tucci to a chair in the center of the room. That chair has seen a lot of bodies. Most left this place alive. This one won’t.

"Let’s talk about the cargo," I say as I begin to methodically roll up my sleeves.

"You brainless fucker," Tucci spits out. "You have no idea who you’re messing with."

"I feel like I heard that line before. You should try changing up your repertoire."

Ricky snorts from the sidelines.

"Talk, asshole," Jeremy warns.

"These people will fuck you up. You and your operation, you dimwits," Tucci continues his useless threats.

"I don’t like to repeat myself," I tell him as I drop into a crouch in front of him. My voice changes to a whisper. "I know it was you who ordered that unsuccessful hit on me. I know you’re doing a lot of unauthorized shit behind Tony’s back. I know you hurt one of my girls. She’s in the hospital now. Sadly for you, the hospital isn’t where you’re going after this." Pause. "You’re going six feet under in the middle of the desert where no one will find you."

"Ah, the girl," Tucci hisses out. "Pretty little thing that one. My boys had a hell of a time with her. She was coming like a freight train when they stuffed her holes."

My anger multiplies. "Watch your mouth, Tucci," I warn, rising to my feet.

"She should send me a thank you card."

Before I can register what's happening, Jeremy is a blur of motion. He crosses the distance between him and Tucci in an instant, fierce and lethal as a wild animal on the prowl. His fist arcs through the air and makes violent contact with Tucci’s unsuspecting face.

Tucci’s head ricochets backward on impact.

A yelp echoes through the warehouse. A few chuckles follow from my guys.

But Jeremy’s not done. He grabs Tucci by his shirt, the fabric bunching under his grip. He gives it a forceful jerk that sends shock waves through both men involved.

The threat falls from Jeremy's lips in rhythm with each ragged breath he takes. "You’re dead, motherfucker," he snarls, "I'll end you!"

"I'm just a small part of this operation," Tucci mutters, blood dripping down his chin from his busted lip. "You cut me down, and two more will rise in my place."

"Then we'll cut them down too," Jeremy vows. "We won't stop until every last one of you is gone."

"Brave words…" Tucci’s voice is low, his consciousness on the brink of failing him from Jeremy’s blow.

"Watch us," I reply.

The room falls silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. And in that moment, I know that there is no turning back. No reprieve from the darkness that now consumes us all and I can feel a boiling rage taking root deep within me, threatening to spill over and devour every single one of my men.

They exchange wary glances as Jeremy finally releases Tucci and takes a step back, his breathing uneven as he tries—quite unsuccessfully—to control his wrath. His hand goes to his Glock as if seeking comfort in that cold kiss of steel.

Everyone understands the weight of this decision, the irrevocable line we're about to cross. Contrary to what most people think about the Hellhounds, we don't kill people left and right. But killing this trash is inevitable. But it won't just be an act of vengeance. It'll be a declaration of war.

"He needs to pay for what he did to Jessica," Hector says. "And if that means we have to take on whatever comes next…then so be it. Civilians are off-limits. And this hijo de puta broke the rules."

"Agreed," another adds. The murmurs of assent ripple through the group like a wave, each man steeling himself for the consequences of our actions.

As I look around the warehouse, my eyes meet those of my loyal soldiers, the men who've stood by me through thick and thin. There's no fear in their gazes, only a fierce determination to see justice—or at least, our version of it—served. And I know that we're united, bound together by a common goal. However twisted that goal in the eyes of others can be.

"Fine," I say, the finality of my words unyielding. "Then it’s decided. He dies tonight."

The air crackles with dark energy as I watch Jeremy's hand grip the gun and point it at Tucci’s head.

He glances at me, needing approval. And—although I’m dreading it—we both know what really needs to be done. Two birds with one stone.

My own gaze shifts to Hawk for a second to where he’s standing on my right. His hands are locked together in front of him and his face is a mask of indifference. Images of him swallowing my cum like it’s some fucking vanilla ice-cream punch through my head, pushing everything else away for a fraction of a second, but I can’t let my weakness be the one thing to destroy my family.

And with that thought, I return my attention to Jeremy and jerk my chin in Hawk’s direction.

Jeremy understands.

"Hey, new guy," he says, voice strained. "You do it." And then he offers his gun to Hawk. "Finish him off."

"Yeah, baby!" Seven chimes in. "Gotta get baptized if you want to be a real Hellhound, my man."

Hawk hesitates for a heartbeat, his gaze flicking between the Glock in Jeremy’s hand, the man tied to the chair, and me before he accepts the gun.

I can see the storm of emotions raging behind his eyes as he palms it as if trying it out. But what truly catches my attention is the uncertainty that lies beneath his hard exterior.

Somehow I sense it.

If Jeremy’s suspicions are correct and Cody Smith is a badge, he won’t do it. But if he’s truly one of us, ready to walk the razor’s edge day after day, he’ll do what needs to be done. If not for us, then for Jessica.

Closing the gap between us, I bring my lips close to his ear, our bodies almost touching in a suggestive dance. "You saw what we saw, didn’t you? The cargo? You’d agree that someone entangled in such filth shouldn't draw another breath, right?" I let my words sink in before continuing. "Surely you don’t believe that setting him free would equate to doling out true justice?"

I pause again, letting the silence stretch around us amidst fear-tainted air. "Oh sure," I resume eventually, sarcasm and all. "Maybe he’ll face judgment years down the line while tucked inside the comforts of his titanium-clad legal bubble, even experience some fleeting jail time–a week or two at most." A soft hollow laugh worms its way out from me. "But can’t you see, Hawk?" An icy hardness crawls into my tone as I squeeze his shoulder ever so slightly, trying to hammer my point home. "He’ll find a lawyer dirty enough who’ll couple loopholes with slick legal maneuvers and inevitably work their magic to shine a shimmering aura of innocence around him." Images of children flash before my eyes as uncontrollable rage churns within me. "He'll return," I say quietly yet forcefully, "to trade teens like baseball cards all over again, to steal childhoods." The phantom taste of bitterness clings stubbornly to my tongue. "Something for you to mull over, Hawk… If seeing what he did to Jessica wasn’t enough of a wake-up call."

The room holds its breath as Hawk tightens his grip on the gun, slowly raising it to point at Tucci’s head.

"Do it, asshole," Jeremy growls, his voice thick with anger. "End this bastard's life."

"You’ll regret this… You’ll regret this, you dimwits," Tucci whines, choking on the blood pooling in his mouth.

"Save it," Hawk interrupts, his voice cold and unforgiving. "You had your chance."

The world around me suddenly fades away until all that remains is this moment, balanced on the edge of a knife. This moment of truth.

Is Hawk truly one of us?