Chapter 14: The Wolf's Den — Part One
The parking lot held forty cars tonight.
Cole pulled in at 10:15 PM, found a spot near the exit, and sat in the darkness running through the plan one final time. Entry. Position. Wait for Banks. Move through VIP door. Find Volk. Kill Volk. Exit through service entrance. Trigger the accelerant on the way out. Disappear into the night.
Simple.
He laughed at himself, the sound hollow in the empty car. Nothing about tonight would be simple.
The security checkpoint was tighter than his previous visits. Two guards now instead of one, both armed, both professionally suspicious. They patted him down thoroughly—no weapons, as expected—and checked his cash before allowing him through.
"VIP section?"
"That's right."
"Straight through, take the stairs on the left. Someone will seat you."
Cole followed the instructions, climbing metal stairs to a raised platform that overlooked the fighting pit. The VIP section held maybe twenty people—wealthier clientele in better clothes, sipping drinks from an actual bar instead of the plastic cups available to the general admission crowd.
The view was excellent. He could see the pit clearly, the bleachers surrounding it, and most importantly, the hallway that led to Volk's private office. A single door at the end, currently closed, with one guard stationed outside.
Banks said he'd unlock it after the third fight. That's in about an hour.
Cole ordered whiskey and found a seat with sightlines to both the office door and the main floor below. The Detection Matrix hummed at the edge of his awareness, cataloging the Wesen in the crowd.
[WESEN PRESENT: 11 CONFIRMED. SPECIES: BLUTBAD (3), HUNDJÄGER (2), SCHAKAL (1), FUCHSBAU (1), UNKNOWN (4).]
More Blutbaden tonight. That made sense—this was a Blutbad's operation, and word traveled through species networks. They'd come to watch one of their own run the show.
They'll scatter when the fire starts. Blutbaden are many things, but stupid isn't one of them.
The first fight was dogs again. Cole watched with detached attention, his mind running calculations. Forty attendees. Twelve security personnel that he'd counted. Four guards with Volk at any given time. One door between him and the target.
Too many variables.
The second fight brought out the Wesen slaves. Two this time—a Skalengeck and something that looked vaguely feline, both wearing shock collars, both terrified beyond reason. The crowd roared approval as they were forced into the pit.
Cole thought about the Fuchs from his first visit. The one who'd won his fight and been allowed to live, at least temporarily. Were there more like him, somewhere in this building? Wesen kept in cages, waiting for their turn to die for entertainment?
Banks might know. If I can find them during the chaos...
The feline Wesen won the second fight. The Skalengeck's body was dragged away. The crowd settled into intermission, drinks refreshed, conversations resuming.
Cole checked his watch. Fifteen minutes until the third fight. Fifteen minutes until Banks unlocked the door.
He excused himself from the VIP section, claiming a bathroom need. The guard at the stairs barely glanced at him—VIP customers were trusted, or at least their money was.
The hallway to the restrooms was empty. Cole moved past the bathroom door to the storage room he'd identified on his first visit. The lock was simple—a basic tumbler mechanism that his practiced fingers opened in thirty seconds.
Inside: cleaning supplies, spare furniture, and the canvas bag he'd hidden during his second visit. He checked the contents: two bottles of accelerant, a lighter, and a burner phone wired to a simple ignition device.
Still here. Still ready.
He repositioned the bag closer to the door, where it would be easier to reach during the escape. Then he slipped back into the hallway, locked the storage room, and returned to his seat in the VIP section.
The third fight was starting.
Marcus Volk entered his booth at 11:27 PM.
He came through a side door that Cole hadn't noticed before—a private entrance from somewhere deeper in the building. Four bodyguards flanked him, two in front and two behind, all moving with the coordinated precision of professionals.
Volk himself looked larger than Cole remembered. Six-four, at least two-sixty, with the thick neck and heavy shoulders of someone who'd spent decades building muscle on top of natural predator strength. His suit was expensive, his smile was cruel, and his eyes swept the VIP section with the casual dominance of a wolf surveying his territory.
Those eyes passed over Cole without pausing.
He doesn't recognize me. Good.
The third fight began. Two more slaves, two more shock collars, two more terrified Wesen forced to tear each other apart for the pleasure of monsters with money. Cole watched just enough to maintain his cover, his attention fixed on the office door at the end of the hallway.
11:28. 11:29. 11:30.
The door's indicator light changed from red to green. Banks had done his job.
Now.
Cole stood from his seat, leaving his half-finished whiskey on the table. He walked toward the hallway with the measured pace of someone heading for the restroom, not the urgent stride of someone planning murder.
The guard at the office door glanced at him.
"Bathroom's the other way."
"I know. I'm looking for the VIP lounge. Someone said there's a better bar back here."
The guard's expression didn't change. "No lounge. Just offices. Turn around."
Cole nodded agreeably—and then moved.
His fist caught the guard's throat before the man could react. The blow crushed cartilage, silencing any cry for help. Cole grabbed his head and slammed it into the wall twice, feeling bone crack under the impact. The guard went down in a heap.
Eight seconds. Too slow.
He dragged the body into a shadowed alcove and checked the hallway. No witnesses. The crowd's roar covered any sounds the scuffle might have made.
Cole pushed through the unlocked door.
The VIP office was larger than he'd expected—maybe thirty feet square, furnished with a desk, several chairs, and a wall of monitors showing security feeds from throughout the warehouse. A private bathroom to the left. A reinforced door to the right, presumably leading to wherever Volk came from.
Volk wasn't here yet. He was still in his viewing booth, watching the fight.
Wait for him. Ambush position.
Cole moved behind the desk, out of the direct sightline from the entrance. His enhanced hearing picked up voices in the hallway—guards checking in with each other, confirming positions. The roar of the crowd swelled as something dramatic happened in the pit.
Five minutes passed. Ten.
The door opened.
Marcus Volk walked in alone, pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto a chair. He was already reaching for the bourbon on his desk when he noticed Cole standing in the shadows.
Their eyes met.
"Who the fuck—"
Cole moved.
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