The industrial freezer in the back of the meat-packing plant hummed with a low, oppressive drone that vibrated in Silas’s teeth. The air here was thick with the metallic tang of chilled blood and the pungent scent of sawdust.
The Butcher, a man whose skin looked like cured leather and whose eyes held the warmth of a shark's, didn't look up from the ledger on his desk. He was occupied with a serrated blade, absent-mindedly carving deep grooves into the wood.
“You’re late, Enforcer,” The Butcher rasped again. “I don't like late. Late usually means a man’s priorities are shifting.”
Silas stood in the center of the room, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. Inside his jacket, tucked against the heat of his ribs, Ivy’s tracker felt like a ticking bomb. Don’t react, he told himself. Your h
