Aiden stepped out into the heavy dusk, the neon motel sign flickering like a failing pulse above his head. The air smelled like old oil and bad decisions.
The black Chrysler idled at the curb.
The front doors opened first — driver and passenger — both men dressed in urban tacticals, not subtle. Not meant to be. They moved like they'd done this before. Cold. Calculated.
Aiden didn't flinch.
Then the back doors opened.
Two more.
That made four.
Aiden's eyes narrowed. "All this for little ol' me?"
The biggest of them stepped forward, scar on his lip, voice like gravel. "Don't make this hard."
"You brought four guys," Aiden said, tone dry. "It's already hard."
They came fast.
The one on the left lunged first, a stun baton crackling in his hand. Aiden sidestepped, grabbed the man's wrist, and twisted — hard — until bone cracked and the weapon clattered to the pavement. He kicked the guy's knee out with a swift snap.
The second grabbed Aiden from behind — strong — yanking him back by the neck.
But Aiden fought like someone who'd been cornered before.
He slammed his boot into the man's shin, then dropped low and flipped him forward, using momentum and weight like second nature. The guy hit the concrete with a grunt, wind knocked from him.
That's when the backseat guys moved.
One stepped out with a pump-action shotgun already raised.
The other pulled a blade and grinned like he'd been waiting all night to use it.
"Game over, Shade," the one with the shotgun sneered.
Bang.
The shotgunner's head jerked sideways — not from recoil, but from the bullet that blew through his temple.
He dropped.
Behind Aiden, standing on the upper walkway of the motel, Connie lowered her gun, face blank, hair wild, tank top sticking to her skin from sweat and adrenaline. Her voice rang out flat and sharp.
"Don't touch what's mine."
The one with the blade froze.
That pause was all Aiden needed.
He surged forward, grabbed the guy's wrist, and slammed his elbow into the man's jaw. The knife clattered to the ground. Aiden caught it mid-spin and buried it deep in the thug's thigh.
Screaming.
Blood sprayed onto the curb.
The parking lot was a war zone now.
Two bodies down, one crawling, one unconscious.
The fourth — the driver — floored it, tires screeching as he peeled away into the night, too shaken to stay and finish the job.
Aiden stood over the wreckage, chest heaving, blood on his shirt, his hands, his face. The motel buzzed behind him.
He turned slowly toward Connie.
She was still up there, gun lowered now, eyes locked on him like she was seeing a ghost. Or a god.
Aiden's voice was hoarse. "You just shot one of Dee's crew."
"I'll shoot another," she said, quiet. "You're the only one I don't want dead."
Aiden didn't move for a beat.
Then: "We have to go. Now."
Connie nodded, descending the steps, unphased by the bodies, like she'd walked over worse.
Together, they climbed into the second car — not the Chrysler, too dirty now. Connie drove.
And the moment the doors shut, it was clear:
This wasn't over.