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My cut is stuffed under the seat of my bike out front, hidden like a secret.

I pull my hoodie up higher over my head, shadowing my face. I am not here to lift weights or shake hands.

I stalk the edges of the gym, pretending to scope out the equipment, but my eyes are busy scanning the crowd.

Row after row of treadmill runners, grunting lifters, clanking machines.

For a second, I wonder if maybe I have it wrong. Maybe he isn’t here.

Then I see him.

The bastard who was outside Melissa’s house a few nights ago.

My blood goes hot under my skin.

I watch him from across the gym floor, careful not to draw attention. He is with a couple other meatheads, laughing and talking between sets at the weight bench like he does not have a fucking care in the world.

I grip a free weight stand hard enough that the steel squeaks under my hand.

Not yet.

Not here.

I wait. I watch.

The guy finishes his last set, claps his buddy on the shoulder, and heads toward the locker rooms.

I move with him, keeping my distance, the crowd swallowing me whole.

I watch him push through the locker room door, and I wait just long enough to make sure nobody else is heading that way.

Then I follow.

By the time he exits out the back, he is alone.

The parking lot on this side of the building is empty except for a few cars and the sharp buzz of a dying streetlamp.

Perfect.

I slip through the door behind him, grabbing the small three-pound weight that someone jammed under it to keep it open.

Fits perfectly in my palm.

Heavy enough to make a statement.

He doesn’t even hear me until I am on him.

I clamp one hand around the back of his neck, jerking him off his feet, dragging him toward the far edge of the building where the cameras don’t reach.

He struggles, cursing, but I shove him face-first against the cold brick wall.

Before he can get a word out, I bring the weight down hard.

The crack when it hits his cheekbone echoes off the concrete, sharp and ugly.

The man grunts in pain, sagging against the wall. Blood smears across the bricks.

I don’t feel bad.

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