Jett climbed out of the car and looked up at the tall building where the Billion Bloodline logo sat like a polished badge. The sunlight hit the letters and made them glare back, a bright signature that said more than any door ever could. He stayed on the pavement for a second, breathing the air as if testing the scene, then nodded to the others. One by one they stepped out of their vehicles, all dressed in black, all wearing the same kind of smiles that meant trouble rather than charm.
They carried things in their hands: bats, iron bars, bike chains, simple, blunt weapons chosen on purpose. There were no knives among them. That had always been the way Jett's crew worked: force over finesse, the kind of brutality that left marks but didn't whisper. It suited them. It announced itself without argument.
"I did some research into this place," Jett said, as if that explanation should be enough.
