The gun cellar beneath King's Paradise smelled like oil and gunpowder.
Jack stood at the center of the room, watching as Steely, Bones, and a dozen of his soldiers loaded magazines, checked sights, and strapped on tactical vests.
The walls were lined with weapons—AR-15s, submachine guns, shotguns, handguns. Military-grade hardware Jack had acquired over the past 18 months through channels that didn't ask questions.
Tonight, they'd need every piece.
Steely slammed a magazine into his rifle and looked up at Jack. "So what's the plan?"
Jack didn't hesitate. "We hit Cage's fighting pits. Hard. Fast. We go straight to the core of his operation and we end this."
The room went quiet.
Bones looked up from the Glock he was cleaning. "The fighting pits? That's his fortress. He'll have men everywhere."
"Exactly," Jack said. "Which is why he won't expect us to hit it directly."
Steely's jaw tightened. "That's a horrible plan."
Jack turned to face him. "You have a better one?"
"Yeah," Steely said. "We hit something smaller first. One of his stash houses. A supply route. Weaken his forces before we go for the throat."
Jack shook his head. "We don't have time for that. The longer this war drags on, the more advantage Cage has. He's building momentum. Taking territory. Every day we wait, he gets stronger."
Steely stared at him, his expression hard. "And if we walk into a trap?"
"We won't," Jack said.
But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie.
There's always a trap.
The question is whether you're ready for it.
Steely didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue.
He just turned back to his rifle, his jaw clenched.
Jack watched him for a moment, then looked away.
I need to end this quickly.
Before more people get hurt.
Before Bella sees me become something worse.
She'd told him he was doing better. Becoming a better man.
And for the first time in years, Jack wanted to believe it.
He wanted to be the man she thought he could be.
But first, I have to survive.
***
The drive to Cage's fighting pits was silent.
Jack sat in the passenger seat of the black SUV, Chip behind the wheel, Dip in the back.
The streets of Southside blurred past—dark alleys, boarded-up storefronts, graffiti-covered walls.
Jack stared out the window, his mind racing.
Once this is over, I'll change things.
I'll make Southside better.
Less violent. Less desperate.
A place where people don't have to choose between survival and morality.
It was a fantasy, he knew.
But it was a fantasy he wanted to believe in.
His phone buzzed.
Steely:In position. Back entrance. Six men. Ready on your signal.
Jack typed back: Stand by.
Another buzz.
Bones:Side entrance secured. Six men. Waiting for go.
Jack pocketed his phone and looked at Chip. "We're good. Let's move."
Chip nodded and pulled the SUV to a stop half a block from the fighting pits.
The building loomed ahead—a converted warehouse with blacked-out windows and a single entrance guarded by a massive bouncer.
Music thumped from inside. Muffled cheers and shouts.
Jack checked his pistol—suppressor attached—and slid it into his waistband.
"Chip," Jack said quietly. "You're up."
Chip nodded, pulling a thin blade from his jacket.
They walked toward the entrance, Dip trailing behind.
The bouncer stepped forward, his hand raised. "Private event. Invitation only."
Chip didn't say a word.
He moved fast—faster than the bouncer could react.
The blade flashed in the dim streetlight, plunging through the bouncer's throat.
The man's eyes went wide. He tried to scream, but only a wet gurgle escaped.
Chip held him upright for a moment, then lowered him gently to the ground.
Jack stepped over the body and pushed open the door.
***
Inside, the fighting pits were packed.
The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and the metallic tang of blood.
A crowd of men and women surrounded a chain-link cage in the center of the room, shouting and cheering as two fighters tore into each other.
Jack scanned the room.
Cage's men are here. Scattered throughout the crowd.
We need to move fast.
He gestured to Chip and Dip, and they started weaving through the crowd, keeping their heads down.
No one paid them any attention.
Everyone was too focused on the fight.
They reached the back hallway—the fighters-only area.
Two bouncers stood guard.
Jack raised his pistol.
Pop. Pop.
Both men dropped, silenced rounds punching through their skulls.
Jack stepped over their bodies and moved deeper into the hallway.
Cage's office was at the end.
Jack kicked the door open.
Empty.
The desk was clean. The chair pushed in.
And in the center of the desk, a single piece of paper.
Jack picked it up.
"You are so predictable."
Jack's blood ran cold.
No.
No, no, no—
Gunfire erupted from the main room.
Screams followed.
Jack spun and ran.
***
By the time Jack reached the fighting pits, the chaos was already in full swing.
Bodies littered the floor—guests, fighters, Cage's men.
Blood pooled on the concrete.
The two fighters in the cage were dead, their bodies riddled with bullets.
Steely, Bones, and what was left of their men had Cage's soldiers surrounded near the back entrance.
Jack arrived just as the final shots rang out.
Cage's men dropped.
Five of them.
Only five.
Jack's chest tightened.
This was too easy.
"Everyone out!" Jack shouted, waving at the fleeing guests. "Get out! Now!"
He ran toward Steely and Bones.
Steely was breathing hard, his face twisted in fury.
"You led us right into an ambush," Steely spat.
Jack looked around. "Where are your men?"
"Dead," Steely said. "Four of them. Dead."
Jack's jaw clenched. "We took out one of Cage's captains. We—"
"Those four were my boys," Steely interrupted, his voice shaking. "My friends. And you got them killed."
Jack opened his mouth to respond, but Dip suddenly hissed, "Shh. You hear that?"
Bones frowned. "Hear what?"
Then the gunfire started.
Automatic. Deafening.
Bullets sprayed from beneath the fighting cage, tearing through the air.
Jack dove behind a concrete pillar, his heart pounding.
Another ambush.
Cage knew we were coming.
He knew everything.
"Return fire!" Bones shouted.
Jack's men opened up, their rifles lighting up the darkness.
But then more gunfire erupted from the back entrance.
They're flanking us.
"We need to get out!" Bones yelled. "Now!"
Jack nodded. "Fall back! Cover fire!"
They retreated toward the front entrance, firing as they went.
Bullets ricocheted off walls. Glass shattered. Bodies dropped.
By the time they reached the front door, three more of Bones' men were dead.
Another was clutching his side, blood seeping through his fingers.
Steely had taken a round to the shoulder.
Dip was limping, his foot bleeding.
Jack shoved the injured into the waiting SUV. "Drive! Get them out of here!"
The driver didn't hesitate.
The SUV peeled out, tires screeching.
Jack and the remaining men—Chip, Bones, and two others—ran.
They sprinted through the streets, ducking into alleys, vaulting over fences.
Cage's men pursued for a few blocks, but eventually gave up.
Jack led them into a narrow alley and stopped, his chest heaving.
He slammed his fist into the brick wall.
Fuck.
Fuck!
Bones leaned against the wall, his face pale. "We lost nine men. Nine."
Jack didn't respond.
He just stared at the ground, his mind racing.
Cage knew.
He predicted we were coming.
He knew we were coming.
He knew exactly what we'd do.
And he played us.
Jack's hands shook.
I've been outplayed.
The realization settled over him like a weight.
He'd walked his men into a slaughter.
And Cage was still out there.
Still winning.
Jack closed his eyes, his jaw clenched.
This isn't over.
Not even close.