Page 45 of Racer

Once I reached the table, I slid my hand across the row of tools, making them clink together.

“I’m giving you the chance to pay reparations,” I told him honestly.

He snickered, then taunted, “You think you can get a fucking dime outta me?”

“I don’t want payment in money.” My fingers settled on a double-edged, fixed-blade combat knife. Clean. Sharp. I turned around, dagger in hand, and walked back over to him.

When he saw the blade, he swallowed hard. “You–you can’t just?—"

“I can,” I replied. “And after I’m done, I’ll sleep just fine.”

It didn’t take long to get the name of the tech guy who helped him with the digital logs, the one who built the explosive device in my car, and a list of all the crooked racers and team owners he’d worked with.

After that, the pain wasn’t about information. Like I told him, it was about penance.

For every driver forced off a track.

For every man who was damaged or broken.

For every man they killed.

And for every drop of fear they instilled in Emily.

I didn’t gut him. Didn’t turn into a monster and rip him to shreds. This wasn’t about splatter and carnage. It was about control. Consequence. And that required precision.

When it was done, with his head lolling to the side and blood seeping from the slash across his neck, I leaned in one last time before the lights went out.

“That was for Axle,” I said quietly. “And for every racer you left bleeding in a wreck you caused.”

I stood and wiped the blade on his shirt.

“And that was for looking at my woman like she was prey.”

Kane stepped into the doorway, his eyes steady. He glanced at Franklin, whose eyes had finally gone blank.

“You done?” he asked.

I nodded.

He jerked his chin up, then tilted his head toward the hallway. “Go on and get cleaned up. Edge will handle the disposal.”

I passed him the knife and walked out, not sparing a glance for the two bodies in the other rooms. They were already dead.Edge had seen to that, though it looked like he’d let his crazy side out to play a little.

There was a bathroom at the far end of the corridor, something Kane had installed for this exact reason. It was sterile and tiled in industrial gray, featuring a deep shower stall, a heavy-duty sink, an industrial dishwasher, and a wall-mounted cabinet stocked with cleaning supplies and bandages.

I peeled off my shirt first, tossing it in the bin marked “burn.” My cut had stayed outside the room. I never brought that symbol near blood unless it was in a fight worth honoring. And this hadn’t even been close to that.

The shower roared on as I stepped inside, letting the near-scalding water sear away the traces of death. Blood swirled in pink ribbons down the drain, and I scrubbed my skin until the water ran clear. But even then, I stayed under the spray for a while longer, letting the heat melt the tension from my stiff muscles.

Slowly, I began to thaw inside as well.

When I emerged, I dried off with a clean towel and pulled on a fresh shirt from a cabinet where they kept extra clothes.

Out in the hallway, it was quiet and still. The men were gone.

Edge would handle the mess. I didn’t need to know how.

As I made my way up the stairs, my boots echoed against concrete and steel. With every step, I felt the last of the ice inside me melting away.

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