The city was alive with neon and sin. But Shade didn't care about any of it.
All he cared about was finding her.
Jade had been taken. He had no doubt Sable was behind it. And if Shade knew the bastard at all, this wasn't just about getting rid of him. This was about sending a message.
Shade wasn't scared of messages.
He was the goddamn postman of pain.
His first stop was a warehouse at the docks—a Crimson Vulture hideout he had raided once before. If they had any intel on Sable's whereabouts, he'd find it there.
The moment he entered, all hell broke loose.
A guard barely had time to react before Shade grabbed his shotgun, wrenched it away, and slammed the stock into his face. The man crumpled, unconscious.
Two more rushed in—Shade shot out the light above them, plunging the room into darkness. He moved through the shadows like death itself, dispatching them with brutal efficiency.
By the time he reached the office, he had left six men broken and bleeding in his wake.
Inside, a terrified informant cowered behind a desk.
Shade yanked him up by the collar. "Where is Sable?"
"I—I don't know!" the man stammered.
Shade pressed a knife to his throat. "Try again."
The informant swallowed hard. "He—he's got a safehouse in the old industrial district. But he won't be alone. He's expecting you."
Shade smirked. "Good."
Because he was expecting Sable, too.
And he was done playing nice.