Page 37 of Throttle All the Way

“Garcia,” Ray’s voice crackled over the line, sharp and urgent. “We’ve got a hit at the Elixir in Silverdale. It’s bad, man. Real bad.”

My gut twisted, the heavy dread settling in even before the rest of the words landed. The Elixir wasn’t just some hole-in-the-wall dive. It was a hub, a meeting ground for the underworld crooked assholes that had big deals and didn’t want to be seen. If something had gone down there, it wasn’t random.

“Who?” I asked, already swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for my jacket.

“Tommy Lingdale,” Ray answered. “And there are Illicit girls involved.”

Tommy Lingdale was an idiot, but he couldn’t be so stupid. Sure, he was well-connected, but killing him was like setting off a goddamn bomb. As for the Illicit girls…

I didn’t ask how many. I didn’t need to.

The drive to Silverdale was a blur of dark roads. The moment I pulled up, the scene was pretty much chaos. Blue and red lights painted the crosswalk, and the air reeked of blood and smoke. The low hum of police radios buzzed in the background like a swarm as Elixir’s once-steady neon glow flickered like a dying heartbeat.

Ray was waiting by the entrance, his face carved from stone. “It’s a goddamn slaughterhouse in there,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Private event. No witnesses. Nothing but bodies.”

“Convenient,” I muttered, stepping past him.

The stench hit me first, thick and metallic, clinging to the walls and the floor. My boots stuck to the blood-slick tiles as I surveyed the carnage. Bodies littered the room, each one a testament to calculated brutality. The Illicit girls—young, beautiful women forced into this life—lay sprawled in pools of crimson, their throats slashed with surgical precision.

They didn’t even have a chance.

And then there was Tommy Lingdale. Propped up in a chair, his lifeless eyes staring blankly ahead. A single bullet hole marred his forehead, his smirk frozen in death.

“What the hell is this?” I murmured, crouching beside his body. The precision was too perfect, too clean. This wasn’t a crime of passion; it was a statement.

“Someone’s sending a message,” Ray said, stepping up behind me. His voice was steady, but the tension was palpable.

“And I know exactly who.” The words tasted bitter on my tongue.

Ray’s brow furrowed. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Not yet.”

The hours that followed were grueling. Forensics teams swarmed the place, snapping photos and bagging evidence. Each piece felt like a breadcrumb leading to a maze with no clear exit. By the time the sun began to rise, exhaustion clawed at me, but my mind wouldn’t stop turning.

Back at the precinct, Ray handed me a steaming cup of coffee and slumped into the chair opposite my desk. “FBI finally coughed up some intel,” he said, sliding a thick folder across the desk.

I flipped it open, scanning the contents. Bank statements, surveillance photos, and enough blackmail material to bury Councilman Lingdale six feet under.

Ray continued, “Turns out daddy’s been neck-deep in debt. Owes money to everyone, including some Russians you wouldn’t want to owe a dime to.”

“Volkov,” I muttered, my jaw tightening. “So Tommy was a pawn. And the girls?”

“Collateral,” Ray said grimly. “They were being funneled through Illicit, straight into Volkov’s hands. Lingdale’s debts weren’t just financial.”

I closed the folder, my knuckles whitening as I gripped the edge of the desk. “So this is retaliation. But why make it so public?”

Ray shrugged, though his expression was anything but indifferent. “Could be a warning. Or maybe someone’s cleaning house.”

“Bulldog’s going to love this,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. Councilman Lingdale, Sr. had been a thorn in our side for years, rallying against the Black Pagan and calling us sinners while he wallowed in filth worse than most of us. Hypocrisy at its finest.

Ray gave a dry chuckle. “Bet he’ll throw a damn parade.”

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the grainy crime scene photos spread across my desk. One image caught my eye: a young woman, her throat slashed so deeply it was a wonder her head was still attached. Her glassy blue eyes seemed to bore into me, accusing and pleading all at once.

Mila’s face flashed in my mind, unbidden and unwelcome. I clenched my fists, forcing the image away.

Ray’s voice pulled me back. “What’s our next move?”

I met his gaze, the weight of the situation settling on my shoulders like a vice. “We dig deeper. Someone’s playing a game, and we’re all just pieces on their board. But if Volkov thinks he can pull this shit and walk away, he’s got another thing coming.”

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