Page 7 of Unhinged
Acid and I sit in my brother’s office, the tension between us as thick as the smoke curling from his cigarette. We're pouring over the same fucking question we’ve been asking for weeks: how the hell does this killer keep slipping through our fingers? Each time a body drops, it’s like a punch to the gut, another reminder that we’re always a step too late.
Gears' boots are propped on his desk, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, a low growl rumbling from his chest.
“I’m sick of playing catch-up with this fucking killer, guys. It shouldn’t be this hard for us to find one fucking man in our own territory. How does no one ever see anything?” His frustration evident.
Except, Kenny didn’t have the usual calling card from the Alpha Slayer—a playing card with the traditional alpha, beta, and omega symbols drawn on it, but the fact his throat was slit and we all know Kenny was a piece of shit, means his murderer has to be the same guy.
There has to be a reason the killer broke their pattern. I’m just not sure what it is yet.
“I don’t know, man. Maybe he’s just that good?” Acid mutters, his focus glued to the screen in front of him as he scours doorbell footage and stoplight cameras for any trace of the bastard. “There are never any witnesses, and all the suspects have alibis. Even the cops are at a fucking loss.”
My mind isn’t on the killer right now. It’s on the woman we found with Kenny’s body last night. She’s a beta—meek, quiet, easy to overlook—but there was something about her that didn’t fit. And that body… fuck. The memory of her standing there in nothing but her bra and panties has me shifting uncomfortably, trying to ease the growing tightness in my jeans.
“What do you make of that beta, though?” I ask, trying to shake the image from my head. “How did Kenny snag a looker like that? Fuck, she was sexy.”
Acid chuckles. “Maybe he paid her, and she just didn’t wanna admit she was an escort. She was hot, though. A little dramatic, but I could think of a way to shut her up.”
Suave snorts from across the table, flipping a toothpick between his teeth. “Looks like that cost him more than he could afford. Dead and dick-drunk. Classic Kenny.”
I smirk, but it fades quickly. “We still need to figure out who he was working with. Finding him dead in bed means we didn’t get to torture answers out of him.”
My fingers tap against the armrest as I stare at the wall, frustration simmering. “Whoever he was getting tar from needs to be taken care of.”
I stand, pacing. “Dealers in our territory know we don’t do ice or tar. And they’re not following our no dealing to kids rule either.”
Nitro, perched on the arm of the couch with his vape, exhales slowly. “One of the corner kids saw a black SUV drop off shit tothat apartment block near Hill. That’s off-limits. They knew it. Someone’s getting bold.”
I stop, turn back to the group. “We need to call Church.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re gathered, patched members only. The doors are shut. The mood’s heavy.
I look around. “This isn’t just about Kenny being an idiot and getting himself killed. Someone brought dope into our streets under our name. That makes us look weak.”
Gears grunts in agreement, arms folded tight. “Word’s gonna get out fast. If people think we’re looking the other way on tar, we’re gonna have a mess.”
Acid finally looks up from his laptop. “Dealers are testing us. Might be someone new, someone who thinks we’ve gone soft.”
“They’re about to find out otherwise,” Gears growls. “I want eyes on every corner. I want names. And if any of ‘em are pushing to kids, I want them gone. You know the rule.”
Nitro flips open a notepad. “I’ll tap the informants. Some of ‘em are overdue for a check-in anyway.”
Suave leans forward, grin sharp. “Let me handle cleanup once you get names. We’ll make it clear—no second chances.”
Nods circle the table. Agreement without words.
“Acid, you finish that footage. Arrow, coordinate with the dealers. Nitro, pull security logs. Suave, start your list. Everyone else—hit the streets. Shake the trees and see what falls.”
The meeting breaks. I push out of the room, jaw tight, needing air.
The second I step into the hallway, the sharp scent of mint hits me like a slap. I don’t even need to look.
Stacy.
The club whore who’s been trying to sink her claws into one of us for years.
“Hey, baby. I missed you. Where are you headed? I’ll go with you, let you work out some of that tension,” she purrs, her fingers trailing down my chest like she’s got a right to touch me.
My hand snaps up, grabbing her wrist, squeezing just enough to make her wince. “Stacy, we’ve talked about touching without askin’. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I wouldn’t fuck you with a prospect’s dick. Now get to goin’.”
