“Fine. I’ll give you what I can. But be careful.”
“If this goes south, I don’t know you.”
“Fair enough,” Vic nodded. “I need their routines. When they’re alone. Where they’re vulnerable.”
Charlie pulled out another sheet of paper and wrote quickly.
“Sterling lives in a gated community. Cameras, guards, dogs. During the day he’s at the plant, at night he’s at the clubs. Ryan is usually with him, but he stays at his girlfriend’s place on weekends—7th and Main, Apt 4B. Tony Fox?”
“The loft on 5th. He works late at the studio on Forest Ave. Usually alone.”
“Peterson. Gym, work, club. Simple routine.”
“He’s at the plant from 8 to 6, then the gym until 9, then ‘The Vault.’”
Vic took the paper, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
“Thanks, Charlie. I owe you.”
“No, you don’t. Just…” Charlie paused.
“Watch your back. Ellie needs a father.”
Vic walked out into the night.
The city was alive. Shops were closing, bars were filling up.
Vic walked slowly, planning. Four of them. Who first? The muscle, Peterson.
Break him first. Get the info. Where’s the video? Who else was there? Then Tony, the cameraman.
He’s the one with the evidence. Then Ryan, the cop’s son. Use him to get to the father, see how deep the rot goes.
And finally, Sterling. The ringleader. For him, the reckoning would be slow. Vic stopped at a convenience store.
He bought cigarettes, a lighter, and a small bottle of brandy. The girl behind the counter, maybe twenty years old, looked at him with a hint of fear. He knew that look.
People can sense a predator. He went home to find his mother asleep.
Vic went to the kitchen and poured the brandy into a glass. He drank it slowly, looking out the window. In the yard, the swing set stood still under the flickering streetlamp.
Somewhere out there, four men were sleeping, unaware that their time was up. They thought money and connections made them untouchable. They were wrong.
Vic finished the brandy. He pulled an old leather jacket from the closet—worn but sturdy. He checked his pockets.
A folding knife, a pair of heavy-duty work gloves, a lighter. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start. He looked at his watch.
10:30 PM. Tomorrow, May 6th, the work would begin. Vic lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes.
He fell asleep instantly. Prison teaches you to sleep anywhere. He didn’t dream.
There was only the silence before the storm. ‘Iron Works Gym’ was located on the ground floor of an old industrial building. It was a no-frills place, smelling of sweat, rubber, and cheap air freshener.
The windows were tinted, and the sign was peeling. Vic arrived on May 7th at 8:00 PM.
He knew Peterson’s routine. He pushed the door open, and a bell chimed.
Inside, there were heavy weights, squat racks, and mirrors lining the walls. Only a few people were left, grunting through their final sets.
In the corner, Isaac Peterson was punishing a heavy bag. He was massive. Nearly six-foot-four, shoulders like a linebacker, arms like tree trunks.
His tank top was soaked with sweat, and a thick gold chain swung around his neck. He was maybe twenty-six, with a buzz cut and a face that had seen its share of bar fights. He hit the bag with a rhythmic thud: left hook, right cross, combination.
The bag groaned on its chains. Vic walked up to the front desk, where a skinny kid in glasses was reading a magazine.
“How much for a day pass?”
