“It’s going to be a long one,” I said. I drove back toward the city. I knew where the Wolf Pack would be on Friday nights. After a big win, and to them, silencing Tessa was a win. They always went to the same place, the Velvet Lounge, a high-end private club downtown that Victor owned. They would be there drinking expensive scotch, patting each other on the back, celebrating their brutality.
I wasn’t going to storm the club. That would be suicide. Seven targets plus security plus Victor. No, you don’t hunt a pack of wolves by running into the middle of the den. You wait on the perimeter. You wait for the straggler. I parked my truck two blocks away in the shadows of an alley.
I pulled my hood up and walked toward the club. I found a spot across the street, tucked into the doorway of a closed bakery. I watched the entrance. An hour passed, then two. At 2:45 a.m., the door opened. Laughter spilled out onto the street. Dominic and Grant walked out first, loud and stumbling. Then came the others.
