The Rat,
The streetlamp outside the rundown dive bar flickered, casting erratic amber light over the cracked pavement. A rickety wooden fence, barely standing, framed the barren, gravel parking lot—like a ghost of something that once mattered. Then again, so was Shane.
He stood beneath the flickering glow, broad shoulders tense, blood drying on his split lip. The metallic taste lingered, mixed with the bitter burn of nicotine. He took one last drag of his cigarette, then flicked it into the road, watching embers scatter before the night swallowed them whole.
His gaze shifted to the bar, his bar.
With a heavy sigh, he pushed off the streetlamp, pain flaring through his ribs. The adrenaline had numbed it earlier. Now, it was settling in, gnawing deep.
Rogue better still be here.
Shane swung open the door, the hinges groaning in protest. Inside, the place was shut down for the night—barstools flipped onto tables, the counters wiped clean. Too clean. Like nothing had happened.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, fingers pressing against his side. The ache was sharper now, a deep, pulsing reminder of the night’s work.
Fishing his phone from his pocket, he dialed. The screen cast a dull glow over his bruised, red knuckles as he wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear, already rummaging under the bar for the first aid kit.
Three rings.
Then Rogue’s voice—groggy, irritated. “Ugh, what do you want now?”
Shane didn’t answer right away, tearing open the red first aid box and shuffling through the medical supplies. The plastic crinkled under his touch, but he was only after one thing. Painkillers.
He found them, popped two into his palm, and dry-swallowed them.
“I dealt with our rat problem.” His voice was rough, quiet.
Silence. Then, Rogue’s tone shifted—the exhaustion peeling away, replaced by sharp interest. “No shit? Who? What happened? Where are you?”
“Details don’t matter. Round everyone up. Now.” Shane’s fingers gripped the edge of the bar, his pulse steady despite the weight of his words.
A groan on the other end. “Man, it’s three AM—”
“I didn’t ask for the fucking time, Rogue. Twenty minutes. Use the back entrance.”
Shane ended the call before Rogue could protest, shoving the supplies back under the bar halfheartedly. His hands flexed, the movement sending a dull, electric pain through his muscles. Tired. Beaten. But still standing.
Straightening, he rolled his shoulders and made his way toward the basement door. Every step tested his body, but his mind had already moved on. The pain was secondary.
What mattered now was control.
And by the time his men arrived, there would be no more loose ends.
Shane moved fast, descending the concrete steps two at a time, his sheer size making each footfall land heavy. The stairwell was narrow, or maybe it just felt that way around him. The air in the renovated basement was thick with the familiar scent of gun oil, stale smoke, and cold metal.
He didn’t hesitate. Crossing the room in a straight B-line, he reached the steel-plated safe embedded in the wall. Fingers moved on instinct, punching in the code. A harsh beep, a click, and the door swung open.
Reaching for his gun, he didn’t even bother unholstering it—just tossed the whole damn thing onto the shelf with a dull thud. His focus was on something else.
The product.
Bricks, precisely packed and wrapped tight, lined the safe in uniform stacks. He grabbed an armful, the weight barely registering against thick, sinewy arms built for this kind of work.
Fuck. We need to do a run.
He dumped the bricks onto the table, the packages landing with a heavy slap. Drugs, cash, power—all sitting in neat, perfect lines. But there was no time to count or organize. Not yet.
Leaving the safe door ajar, Shane moved toward his office, shrugging off his blood-streaked shirt as he went. The fabric clung for a second before peeling away, revealing the damage beneath.
Deep purple bruises sprawled across his right ribs, angry and unforgiving, marring the sculpted muscle underneath. He barely brushed his fingertips over them before a sharp ache flared up his side. Definitely cracked—maybe broken.
His reflection loomed in the wall-length mirror beside his desk.
Tall. Broad. A frame built for violence.
The dim light cast harsh shadows over his chest, abs lined with definition, deep ridges of muscle flexing involuntarily with every slow breath. His shoulders, massive and cut with strength, carried the weight of too many nights like this. And his arms—thick, powerful things, lined with veins and old scars—reminded him that he’d fought for everything he had.
And he wasn’t done fighting.
Shane cracked his neck, rolling out his stiff shoulders, taking stock of the rest of himself. Minor cuts. Scrapes. Nothing worth paying attention to.
He’d live.
Pulling on fresh clothes, he heard it—the muffled sounds of engines cutting off, car doors slamming, boots crunching gravel.
His people had arrived.
Shane exhaled sharply, forcing the tension from his body. He needed focus.
No distractions. No hesitation. Just control.
With a final exhale, he pushed open the door and stepped out.
Time to handle business.
The basement was dimly lit, the overhead fluorescents humming with a faint buzz. The scent of gunpowder, old whiskey, and sweat lingered in the air—a room built on power, secrets, and blood.
One by one, they filed in, each dragging the weight of exhaustion behind them.
Reaper arrived first, silent and brooding, his heavy boots echoing off the concrete floor. No complaints—never did. Just crossed his arms and waited.
Then came Diesel, looking like he wanted to put a bullet in someone, coffee in hand, suit wrinkled like he’d just rolled out of bed. “I swear to God, Shane, if this isn’t urgent, I’m charging overtime.”
Ghost didn’t make a sound—just appeared like a shadow near the far wall, hood up, hands tucked in his pockets, scanning the room with cold, calculating eyes.
Knox ducked under the doorway, cracking his knuckles loud enough to sound like gunshots. His broad frame looked like it had been carved out of stone, his t-shirt stretched to its limits. “Somebody better be dying for this.”
Sable strolled in next, yawning dramatically. Hair still perfect, nails freshly done, wearing a silk robe like she had nowhere better to be. “If I knew this was a sleepover, I would’ve brought wine.”
Then came Talon, tossing his car keys onto the table with a metallic jingle. “You do realize I was in bed with two very hot blondes, right?”
Viper didn’t bother acknowledging anyone, just leaned against the far wall, arms folded, his movements eerily smooth, eyes dark and unreadable.
Doc was the last to arrive, rolling up his sleeves, knuckles stained with something red. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Whatever this is, I hope it involves painkillers.”
And then…
Rogue.
Wide awake. Buzzing with energy. Chewing on a toothpick like he was the main attraction in a Wild West showdown.
He grinned wide and clapped his hands. “Now this is a proper fucking gathering! Early morning, a room full of degenerates, and a leader who looks like he took a baseball bat to the ribs! I love this job!”
A collective groan filled the room.
“Rogue,” Bishop, the only one missing from the group, called out as he entered, adjusting his cufflinks, looking crisp despite the hour. “I would rather listen to your bloodied nails, from your decapitated hand on a chalkboard than your voice right now.”
“Oh, come on.” Rogue spread his arms wide. “Don’t act like you’re not thrilled to see me.”
Shane wasn’t in the mood for their shit.
“Sit the fuck down.” He growled.
The room fell silent.
Shane stood at the head of the table, bruised and battered but unmoving, his presence heavier than the air itself.
They sat.
Even Rogue.
Shane let the silence stretch, let them sit with their questions.
Then, he exhaled through his nose.
“The rat is handled.”
Eyes flickered around the table, but no one spoke.
Handled. That meant dead. But no one knew how—or who.
Shane let that mystery sit, his voice calm but weighted. “That’s all you need to know.”
Ghost’s head tilted slightly. He knew better. If Shane had gone alone, it meant something was still left unsaid. Unresolved.
But Ghost didn’t ask. Neither did the others.
They knew better.
Shane leaned against the table, rolling his aching shoulders.
“Reaper, you’re pulling in the foot soldiers. I want every single one of our guys accounted for by noon.”
Reaper gave a firm nod. No questions. No hesitation.
“Ghost.” Shane’s eyes flicked to the hooded figure in the corner. “I need CCTV wiped. I don’t want a single frame left of tonight.”
Ghost barely blinked. “Where?”
“The old allotment. Outside the burnt-down high-rise.”
A slow nod. “I’ll handle it.”
Shane continued. “Talon, we need to move product. Fast.”
Talon exhaled through his nose. “I can have it out of the city by sunrise, but we’ll need a bigger convoy.”
Shane nodded. “Then take Knox with you. No one fucks with our shipments.”
Knox cracked his knuckles again, smirking. “Finally, something to hit.”
“Doc.” Shane’s gaze shifted. “There’s a body in my trunk. It’s been there too long. You know what to do.”
Doc raised an eyebrow. “You want it clean, or you want it gone?”
“Gone. And the car goes with it.”
Doc gave a lazy thumbs-up. “I’ll make sure it never existed.”
“Viper.” Shane’s voice hardened. “Get me a new gun.”
Viper tilted his head slightly. “Something special, or just another replacement?”
“Something special,” Shane muttered. “It’s gonna get a lot of use.” Shane paused, turned around and grabbed his old gun from the safe, throwing it down on the table. “Get rid of this one too.” He said as an afterthought.
That caught everyone’s attention.
Sable leaned forward, intrigued. “Oh? Who’s dying?”
Shane exhaled sharply.
“Two brothers. New in town. Think they can play in my city.”
That was all he had to say.
The room shifted.
Talon rolled his shoulders. Reaper cracked his knuckles. Viper smirked. Rogue lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.
“Oh,” Rogue breathed. “You mean the dipshits who thought they could play in our sandbox? Without repercussions?”
Shane nodded.
Rogue let out a long, delighted laugh, clapping his hands together. “I knew today was gonna be a good fucking day!”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Shane’s voice was a warning. “We’re handling this my way.”
Rogue grinned wider. “Oh, boss. That’s the only way I ever handle things.”
The man took one last look around the room before ending the abrupt meeting. “Don’t just fucking sit there staring at me, go do your fucking jobs. Earn your keep. And try to stay alive for one more fucking day.” He dismissed his crew.
The meeting was over.
Now, it was time to get to work.
~
After crashing for too many hours, Shane woke feeling as if he had been awake all night, which he had been. A quick shower, clean dark clothes. He gathered Sable and Rogue for his own intel mission.
~
Shane leaned against the bar, nursing a whiskey he wasn’t drinking. The dim neon glow bathed the room in a haze of reds and purples, casting deep shadows in the corners where deals were made and lives were sold.
The place reeked of stale booze, sweat, and desperation.
A wannabe gangster’s paradise.
And exactly the kind of place those brothers would crawl into.
Rogue sat on a barstool beside him, one boot propped against the metal rung, fingers twitching against the glass in his hand. The energy rolling off him was near vibrating, like a caged animal itching to get loose.
“This is fucking boring,” Rogue muttered, swirling his drink before slamming it back. “Why can’t we just skip to the part where we start breaking fingers?”
Shane’s gaze remained steady on the room.
“We don’t have names. We don’t have numbers. We don’t have locations. Yet.” He set the untouched glass down with a deliberate clink. “That’s what Sable is for.”
Rogue groaned, slumping against the bar. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. She’s the seductive genius, I’m the violent idiot.” He smirked sideways. “Not that I’m complaining. I just don’t get why we’re playing nice.”
Shane exhaled through his nose. He wasn’t playing nice. He was playing smart.
And right now, smart meant baiting the hook.
Sable made her entrance like she owned the place.
Not too fast, not too slow. A perfect glide, a calculated sway in her hips—effortless confidence, the kind that turned heads and made men forget they had better things to do.
The energy in the room shifted.
A couple of guys near the pool table elbowed each other, glancing her way. A bartender did a double take. Conversations stalled mid-sentence.
Exactly what she wanted.
Shane watched from his seat as she approached the bar, lips curled into that signature half-smile—the one that made stupid men think she was there for them.
Rogue leaned in slightly, watching like he was about to be entertained. “Man, it’s disgusting how easy she makes this look.”
Shane didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on the reaction across the room.
There.
Target acquired.
A young guy, mid-20s, leaning back in a booth with his feet kicked up. Tattoos up his throat, gold chain, eyes sharp with suspicion. Not one of the brothers—but close.
He’d noticed Sable. More than noticed.
He’d sat up straighter. Stopped talking to his friend.
Sable glanced sideways, catching the movement, then turned just enough for her gaze to flick toward him before sliding away again.
Bait. Hooked.
The guy nudged his friend, murmured something, and stood up.
Here we go.
Sable turned toward the bar, lifting her freshly poured drink just as the guy approached.
He leaned against the counter beside her, just a little too close, flashing a grin too cocky for his own good.
“You new around here, sweetheart?”
Sable didn’t look at him right away. Instead, she took a slow sip, exhaled, and finally turned toward him with an easy, sultry smile.
“Something like that.” Her voice was smooth, warm. A lie wrapped in silk.
Shane stayed perfectly still, letting the exchange play out.
This was her stage right now.
“You look like trouble,” the guy mused, letting his gaze shamelessly drag over her.
Sable smirked, tilting her head just enough to expose her throat. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you.”
The guy grinned wider. “Depends on what kind of trouble you’re looking for.”
“I like my trouble young, ruthless, and with a taste for risk.”
Sable sipped her drink again, slow and deliberate. “I’ve heard whispers about two guys making moves in town. Big moves. But whispers aren’t enough. I need a name.”
There it was. The shift.
The moment his arrogance met curiosity.
The guy leaned in. “You don’t say.”
Then, as smooth as oil, his hand crept along the curve of her waist, fingers trailing lower.
Predatory. Like he owned the moment.
Shane’s fingers curled against the bar. Not yet.
Rogue let out a low whistle, barely keeping his amusement in check. “Oh, he’s gonna regret that.”
Sable didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil. She just took another sip of her drink, exhaling a slow, amused breath.
“Maybe I got a name,” the guy murmured, his fingers pressing, testing. “But see, pretty girls like you? They gotta earn it.” He whispered, his voice hot and inches away from her ear.
Sable finally moved.
Her free hand snapped up, clamping around his wrist, applying just enough pressure to let him feel her grip.
And then she laughed.
Soft. Low. Mocking.
“Oh, sweetheart.” She leaned in closer, whispering near his ear. “I don’t earn names. I take them.”
His smirk twitched. Just a little.
Shane knew that twitch.
It was the moment a predator realized they weren’t the one hunting.
Rogue let out a delighted laugh, practically vibrating beside Shane. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”
Shane finally moved.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He stood from the barstool, his full height casting a long, heavy shadow over the scene. The room felt different the moment he moved. Like the air got thinner. Like people started questioning if they should still be watching.
The guy glanced up—saw him.
And froze.
Shane let the silence stretch between them. Let the weight of his presence settle on the idiot in front of him.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“Sit down.”
It wasn’t a threat. It was a command.
The guy looked afraid for all of a second before remembering who he was, who he knew. He tried to keep the façade that he was as dangerous as he thought he was. He shot Shane a dirty glare.
“The fuck are you talking to big man?” the guy seethed.
Sable smiled again, slow and victorious, turning back to her drink.
Rogue stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles surrounding the guy from the other side of Shane. “Finally. This was starting to feel like a waste of time.”
“I aint talking to myself.” He growled, leaning in. “So either I smash your face into the bar a few times, see if that jogs your memory, or you can sit the fuck down and start talking,” he muttered.
The guy swallowed.
Slowly, he sat.
“Good choice.” Shane nudged the guy’s drink toward him. “Now, drink. Then talk.”
~
