Page 60 of Brutal for It
“This is the place,” Karma says, pointing to the circled mark on the county map. “Motel by the bypass. Old property. They run girls out of the back rooms. Cops don’t bother. Owner’s on payroll.”
He slides a sheet toward me — names, ages, partial histories. “Seven women. We got a social worker lined up through the foundation Doc Kelly runs. Rehab in Greenville, safe houses. Quiet help, no trail back to us.”
Tripp folds his arms. “We go in quiet, talk first. Make the point clear. If they want to keep breathin’, they’ll pack up and disappear. We don’t want a war, we want peace.”
“Sometimes peace comes at a cost,” Red mutters.
Tripp’s eyes cut to him. “Yeah. But we decide what we’re willing to pay.”
I meet his gaze. “Then let me lead the talk.”
He hesitates only a moment. “You sure?”
“This started in my house,” I explain. “I’ll finish it.”
Crunch claps a hand to my shoulder. “Then we ride.”
The air is thick like rain is coming as we roll down the highway, the storm sitting heavy somewhere just behind the horizon. Five bikes, two vans — quiet enough not to draw attention, but loud enough that nobody mistakes what we are.
We pull into the lot of the motel just before sunset. The building’s in a state of disrepair, paint peeling, neon flickering, shadows thick around the corners. A place built for secrets and silence.
Karma nods to a door near the end. “That’s them. Room 15. Back rooms are theirs. The women are in the last row.”
I cut the engine and swing my leg over the bike, the hum of adrenaline running through my hands. I can feel the eyes on us before I even knock.
The door cracks open. A man with a crooked smile and too much confidence looks me over. “Can I help you, brother?”
“You can try,” I say, stepping forward. “We need to talk.”
He doesn’t invite me in, but I walk past him anyway. The room stinks of smoke, old sex, and stale liquor. Three more men sit at a table playing cards. Another leans against the dresser. They all look the same — tired men without a clue about life filled with real loyalty.
“Tommy Boy Oleander,” the leader says, leaning back in his chair. “Heard the Hellions were done with this kind of work. You already took one of my girls. We didn’t retaliate. I let you take out my trash. Why come back? What brings you here now?”
His words slice through the air and make my blood boil. I study him. He’s got that look of someone who’s used to women flinching when he raises his voice. It makes my hands itch.
“You got a serious problem,” I tell him. “Caputo cut you out. You’re done running women and drugs in Pamlico, well anywhere in the Carolinas.”
He laughs, a sharp, ugly sound. “That so? We’ll find another supplier. Always someone needs to offload.”
Crunch moves behind me. “That’s not a choice you got.”
The leader smirks. “You come here to give orders?”
I step closer, slow and deliberate, until we’re almost nose to nose. “I came here to end something. You don’t stop, we’ll make sure you can’t continue.”
The air tightens. His hand drifts toward his waistband.
Pretty Boy tenses. Red’s hand drops near his jacket. I see it all happening like a movie in slow motion. The man pulls a gun. Points it right at my chest.
For a second, everything goes quiet — even my heartbeat. I can smell his sweat, the fear that’s not mine.
I take one step forward until the barrel presses against me. “Pull it,” I challenge, voice steady. “Do it. Because that’s the only way you stop me from ending this tonight.”
He hesitates. Just a fraction. It’s enough.
I move. A quick shift, a grab, a twist. The gun slides across the floor. Chaos explodes — shouts, movement, a few pops — and then silence again, fast and final.
When the dust settles, the only men left standing wear the same cut as me. No one speaks. The room smells of blood, sweat, and aftermath.
