Chapter 350: They Already Left

"So you’re the bastard that has been planning to kill Rechelle," Lucas said.

Aaron’s good eye widened. For a moment his mouth only opened and closed, as if the accusation itself had knocked the air from his lungs. Then denial came spilling out in a desperate rush.

"No. No. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Kill her? I never planned to kill anybody. Whoever told you that is lying. I swear~"

Lucas hit him.

The blow was clean and heavy, hard enough to snap Aaron’s head sideways and shut the noise down at once. Fresh pain flared through the same cheek the Dirty Saints had already swollen shut that morning. Tears sprang to his eyes. He curled inward on the floor, one hand hovering near his face, breath breaking into short wet pulls.

Lucas crouched over him.

In his mind the shape of this visit had been simple. Find the man. Force the truth out of him. Make him confess that he was the one who sent people after Rechelle. Then end it. No long chase. No unfinished business. Let the bastard die with the admission still in his mouth and no more rooms left to hide in.

"Confess," Lucas said.

Aaron sobbed once. "I was desperate. People were after me. I owed money. I~"

"Confess."

The second hit landed in his ribs. Aaron folded hard, coughing until spit and blood dotted the carpet. When he could speak again, his voice had lost most of its resistance.

"Yes," he choked. "Yes. I pointed men at her. I used her name. When my debts came due, I made her the value they could collect."

Lucas’s hand closed around his collar.

There it was. The thing he came for. The confession that should have closed the matter and left only the final decision behind.

But Aaron kept talking.

"I had to. This morning they were going to kill me."

Lucas’s grip tightened slightly. "This morning?"

Aaron nodded fast, mistaking the question for interest in his suffering. "The Dirty Saints. Local gang. They kicked the door in, beat me, poured beer over my head, put a pistol in my face. I didn’t have the money. I didn’t have anything left to give. So I gave them her."

The ruined Airbnb seemed to shrink around those words.

Lucas had come here ready to punish a past sin. What he was hearing now was not past tense. It was fresh. Active. An operation launched in less than twelve after the last one that just happened.

"What exactly did you tell them?" Lucas asked.

Aaron wiped at his mouth with a shaking hand. "That she had millions. That if they got to her, they wouldn’t need me. I gave them the mansion address. What I still remembered of the layout. Her routines."

"Routines."

"I told them she’s usually home by seven," Aaron said, voice dropping. "That night was better. Daytime was harder to predict."

Lucas stared at him in silence.

The confession he wanted had arrived. Aaron had admitted he was the one who sent men after Rechelle. In another version of this morning, that might have been enough to finish things here on this dirty floor. But the confession had brought something worse with it. Not only guilt. Movement. A second group of men already aimed at the same woman Lucas had left alone in her mansion with a light kiss on the cheek and a promise that there was nothing to worry about.

"Where are they now?" Lucas asked.

Aaron hesitated.

The pause lasted less than a second, but it was enough. Lucas dragged him closer by the neck until their faces were near enough that Aaron could see there was no room left for cleverness.

"Where are they?"

"They~ they left," Aaron choked, voice cracking hard. "Right after I told them. I swear. They didn’t stay. They took everything I said and went straight for the location~ please~"

"Are they already near her?"

"Yes~ yes, they should be," Aaron rushed out, almost tripping over the words. His good eye darted wildly. "They didn’t waste time. Not even a little. By now they’re probably already in the neighborhood. Watching the house. Waiting for evening."

The air in the room changed.

For a second Lucas’s control slipped hard. Panic and anger hit together, sharp enough to burn through the calm he had been holding since he first dragged Aaron out of the bathroom. His hand twitched toward the man on the floor. In that instant he was ready to send the bastard to hell and finish it right there among the glass and blood.

Then the second thought arrived, colder and more useful.

Dead men gave no more details.

Dead men could not call anyone.

Dead men could not be used.

Lucas forced the rage back down. His breathing stayed tight, but his hands did not finish what they wanted to do. Aaron saw enough of the shift to freeze completely, understanding that his life had just survived by a very thin margin and only because he still had value.

Lucas shoved him back to the floor and reached into his pocket.

His phone came out fast. He dialed Rechelle.

The line rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then it switched to voicemail.

Lucas’s jaw tightened. He called again. The same empty ringing filled the ruined Airbnb, each tone stretching longer than the last. Voicemail. He tried a third time. Still nothing. Only the automated invitation to leave a message, useless against the image now forming in his head of a van already parked near her street.

He looked down at Aaron.

Aaron had gone pale under the blood and swelling. He was praying in his own way now, silently, desperately, that Rechelle would pick up. Because he understood exactly what unanswered calls could mean. Either she was busy... or the Saints had already moved faster than evening, already taken her, already made the confession in this room worthless.

The silence after the last failed call sat heavy between them.

Lucas lowered the phone.