The city felt wrong that night.
Capol could sense it even before Vince pulled the van to a stop at the mouth of the industrial strip. The streets were too quiet, the sodium lamps overhead buzzing like angry hornets, shadows stretching too long. Eastgate always slept with one eye open, but tonight, it felt like it had stopped breathing entirely.
The night was too still.
Capol didn’t trust still nights.
The van hummed as Vince drove, his jaw locked tight, one hand drumming an impatient rhythm against the wheel. The city blurred by in muted streaks of yellow and gray. Eastgate after midnight always carried that low thrum of danger — the kind you felt in your bones before you ever heard a gun c**k or a footstep break the silence.
In the back, Jerry checked his rifle for the third time, mu
