Chapter 1

When Jordan finally made it home, the feeling of being watched still gnawing at the edges of his mind, he locked the door behind him and slumped onto the couch. His body ached from the tension of the day, but his mind was still buzzing. That figure, the one who had been staring at him—it was like a lingering shadow, refusing to fade. But he couldn’t afford to dwell on it, not now. He had work to do. The vanishing man could wait.

He set his keys down on the coffee table and powered up his computer, fingers drumming absently on the desk as the machine hummed to life. Once it was on, he opened his browser and navigated quickly to the dark web. His heart still raced as he logged into the chat site he had stumbled upon earlier, the one where he’d been lurking in the shadows, searching for others like the predator he’d taken care of. He clicked through the familiar interface, the anonymity of it all comforting in a strange way.

His eyes scanned the posts. People advertising, selling, bartering, and discussing all manner of illegal activity. It felt sickening, like crawling through the lowest gutter of humanity, but Jordan wasn’t there for any of that. He was hunting for the people who needed to be hunted—predators, filth. People who didn’t deserve to live, just like the man he’d disposed of. He scrolled, his eyes narrowing as he read through the cryptic conversations. He knew how this worked now, how to manipulate the darkness, how to pull the right strings. Every message, every post was a breadcrumb leading to someone who would be next. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to dive back in—he had more work to do, and this time, he was going to make sure no one would even know they were gone. As Jordan scrolled deeper through the threads, his eyes narrowed on a link buried in one of the posts—a private chat room, specifically for people looking to supply drugs for parties. But it wasn’t just any drugs. The post mentioned laced substances—heavy hitters, the kind of thing that could knock out a crowd, the kind of drugs that had consequences. This wasn’t some casual exchange; it was dark, deep in the underground, and exactly what he needed. His heart skipped a beat as he clicked on the link, quickly entering the chat.

The man in the chat was offering “work” for those who could help distribute—laced drugs for the right price. Jordan’s fingers flew over the keyboard, typing out a quick message, pretending to be someone else. “I’m looking to get in. I’ve got connections and need a way to move product fast. Please, I need the job.” The words felt hollow, like a calculated performance, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was getting his foot in the door.

He sat back in his chair, staring at the screen, watching the cursor blink in silence. Minutes passed, and then the dreaded anxiety crept in—What if no one replies? What if this was all a waste of time? But then, after ten long minutes, he clicked the power button, shutting off his computer with a soft click. His heart was still pounding, but his face remained cold, unreadable. He rose from the desk and moved to the living room, sinking into the couch. He turned on the TV, trying to drown out the thoughts swirling in his mind. The flickering light from the screen provided a dull, comforting glow, but his eyes kept drifting back to the quiet hum of his phone on the coffee table. He couldn’t shake the feeling that things were about to change—and maybe, just maybe, he was finally stepping into a darker world than he’d ever imagined.

Jordan sat back on the couch, a sense of unease still lingering as he switched the TV on. He started flipping through the channels, his mind not fully engaged, when his finger froze over the remote. A press conference was airing live. The screen cut to the chief of police standing at a podium, flanked by a couple of detectives, as reporters bombarded him with questions. Jordan leaned forward, his attention sharpening, his eyes narrowing. The chief’s voice rang out, cold and deliberate.

“We have confirmed that the body discovered near the lake is that of a known offender with a long history of criminal activity,” the chief said, his expression stone-cold. “We are treating this as a potential serial killing. While we have no concrete evidence at this moment, we’re working tirelessly to gather more information. If another body is found, we’ll be prepared to act swiftly.”

Jordan’s blood went cold. He recognized the name of the man they were talking about—the one he had taken out. The predator. The officer’s words struck a chord deep in him, and before he realized it, a surge of anger twisted in his gut. Serial killer? That’s what they were calling him? He wasn’t some monster out of a crime story—he was doing the world a favor. His fingers gripped the remote tightly, the veins in his neck pulsing with frustration. To them, he was just a killer. But to Jordan, he was doing what the cops couldn’t. He was cleaning up the mess they refused to touch.

His jaw clenched as the chief continued speaking about gathering evidence and being ready if it happened again. Jordan’s mind raced. Let them try. He wasn’t worried about being caught. They’re the ones who don’t see what’s really happening. They’ll never be ready for me. The challenge in the officer’s words only fueled his determination further. He was already steps ahead, and that gave him a sense of cold satisfaction. He felt like he was doing their job—and doing it better.

Jordan leaned back against the couch, his eyes fixed on the flickering television screen as the press conference wrapped up. The reporters shouted more questions at the police chief, but the words blurred together into meaningless noise. Jordan’s jaw tightened, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“Serial killer,” he muttered under his breath, the words bitter and metallic on his tongue. “They don’t get it. They never will.”

He clicked the TV off, plunging the room into silence. For a moment, he just sat there, his mind buzzing like static. The label they’d given him wasn’t just wrong—it was insulting. What he did wasn’t random violence. It wasn’t madness. It was precision. Purpose. Justice.

He exhaled slowly and stood, the weight of the day pressing heavy on his shoulders. Moving to the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water, the cool liquid soothing the tightness in his throat. He drank it in slow, deliberate sips, grounding himself in the small, mundane action.

After setting the empty glass in the sink, he made his way to the bedroom. His one-bedroom apartment was simple and unadorned—no photos, no decorations, just the essentials. It was a space that revealed nothing about its occupant. Exactly how he liked it.

Jordan peeled off his hoodie, jeans, and boots, tossing them into the corner for tomorrow. His body ached, not from physical exhaustion but from the mental strain of always being on edge. He climbed into bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from his skin.

Lying there in the darkness, he stared at the ceiling, the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. His mind replayed the police chief’s words, the image of the silhouette in the parking lot, and the gnawing unease that someone might be watching him.

But beneath it all, deeper than the anger and the anxiety, was something colder. Determination. The kind of resolve that didn’t waver, no matter the risk.

Jordan closed his eyes, his breathing steadying as he let the day’s events settle into a part of him that didn’t feel, didn’t hesitate, didn’t regret. Sleep came slowly, and when it finally did, it was dreamless—just darkness, calm and heavy, like the waters he used to hide his work.

Jordan woke to the soft buzz of his alarm, the sound slicing through the quiet like a whisper in the dark. He reached out, silencing it with a practiced motion, and lay still for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle over him. The faint traces of unease from the night before lingered, but he pushed them aside. Routine was his armor, and the world didn’t wait for hesitation.

After a quick shower and a breakfast that barely registered—toast, black coffee, and the occasional glance at the window—Jordan was out the door. His boots struck the pavement in rhythm with his thoughts, his expression neutral as he made his way to work. The city around him felt heavier than usual, like the air was charged with something just beyond his grasp. He told himself it was nothing. Just noise. Just static.

But across town, in a cramped office bathed in stale coffee fumes and fluorescent light, Detective Abigail Kane was anything but still.

She stared at the crime scene photos spread across her desk: blurred shots of the bags fished out of Horseshoe Lake, close-ups of the mutilated remains, and a grainy photo of the liquor store where Marcus “Slug” Devane had met his end months earlier. The cases were unconnected on paper, but in her gut, Kane felt the thread tying them together.

Her colleagues dismissed it as overthinking, but she knew better. The city wasn’t just losing its predators—it was being hunted.

Kane leaned back in her chair, rubbing a hand over her face as she scanned her notes again. A pattern was emerging, faint but undeniable. The victims weren’t random—they were scum. Dealers, traffickers, predators. People the system should’ve handled but didn’t. Someone out there was filling the gaps, taking out the trash, and leaving nothing behind but whispers and bloodstains.

She hated it.

It wasn’t that she had sympathy for the victims—she didn’t. Kane had spent years staring into the rot of humanity, and she knew better than most that some people didn’t deserve a second chance. But vigilantism? That was different. It wasn’t justice. It was chaos. It was arrogance. And whoever this shadow was, they weren’t a hero. They were a time bomb, waiting to blow back on the city and take innocents with them.

Kane sat up, pulling her chair closer to the desk. Her eyes narrowed on the timeline she’d sketched across the whiteboard. Each name marked an escalation: Slug’s death had been quiet, barely a blip on the radar, but Eric Downs? That was loud. Messy. Visible.

This vigilante was getting bolder, and that made them sloppy.

She stood, the creak of her chair cutting through the silence of the office. Kane grabbed her jacket, her badge flashing as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass door. Her jaw was set, her dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, and her eyes burned with a quiet, relentless fire.

“Time to meet the monster,” she muttered, stepping out into the cold morning air.

Back at the job site, Jordan worked in silence, the scrape of rollers against brick filling the air as Liam and Brenden traded jokes. He didn’t mind the noise—it gave him space to think. But even as he moved through the motions, the weight of the news segment and the figure in the parking lot stayed with him.

Across the city, Kane arrived at the motel where Eric Downs had been staying. The place reeked of mildew and neglect, but she didn’t flinch. As she stepped inside Room 208, her sharp eyes scanned the space, taking in every detail—the scuffed carpet, the faint scent of bleach, the chair by the window that didn’t quite sit right.

She crouched, running a hand lightly over the chair’s arms. The surface was clean. Too clean. Kane’s lips pressed into a thin line. Whoever this vigilante was, they were careful. But no one was perfect.

Standing, she turned toward the bathroom, flipping the light on and letting her gaze roam over the tiled floor, the sink, the drain. Her instincts hummed. This wasn’t just a murder scene—it was a message.

And Kane wasn’t going to let it go unanswered.

As the day stretched on, Jordan felt the faint tingle of unease growing stronger, like a shadow creeping closer. He didn’t know it yet, but someone was watching his work—someone who wouldn’t stop until they brought him into the light.

Jordan spent the rest of the morning painting in silence, his movements automatic but precise. The scrape of rollers and the smell of fresh paint were familiar comforts, even as his mind churned over the events of the last few days. Liam and Brenden chatted on the scaffolding above, their laughter and banter a dull hum in the background. Jordan didn’t join in. He rarely did.

By the time their lunch break rolled around, Jordan had wiped down his tools and leaned against the work van, chewing slowly on a sandwich as he watched the street. It was a quiet neighborhood, the kind of place where nothing unusual happened. But something felt off. He couldn’t shake the memory of the figure in the parking lot last night, watching him.

The unease followed him into the afternoon, his senses sharpened, every small sound pulling at his attention. He scanned the street as they packed up for the day, his eyes catching every passerby, every car that rolled too slowly by the site.

It wasn’t until he was walking back to his truck that it happened.

The man passed by in a blur—quick, head down, shoulders hunched like he was avoiding notice. Jordan barely registered him until he felt the brush of paper against his hand. A note, slipped so seamlessly into his grasp that it took him a moment to react.

“Hey,” Jordan said, turning sharply, but the man was already gone, disappearing into the crowd with practiced ease. Jordan’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the street, but there was no sign of him—just strangers moving in the late afternoon bustle, none of them sparing him a second glance.

He looked down at the note, his pulse quickening as he unfolded it. The handwriting was clean, precise, and to the point:

Coordinates.
Tonight. 1 a.m.
Or I expose you.

Jordan’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking back to the crowd one last time. The man was gone, but the implications of the note lingered, heavy and sharp.

Someone knew.

Jordan climbed into his truck, gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. The coordinates were etched into his mind, already forming a map of the city’s edges. He’d memorized every back alley and forgotten stretch of road long ago. This wasn’t a random meeting spot—it was deliberate. Remote. The kind of place people disappeared from.

But whoever this was, they weren’t just threatening him. They wanted something, and Jordan had a sickening feeling he already knew what it was.

The pieces began to fall into place as he drove. Eric Downs wasn’t working alone. No one in that kind of filth ever did. Someone had supplied him, enabled him, and when Jordan took Eric off the board, he disrupted their operation. That someone wasn’t happy.

And now it was personal.

By the time Jordan got home, the note was still clenched in his hand. He locked the door behind him, pulling the blinds shut and pacing the living room. His mind raced, running through scenarios, weighing risks. This wasn’t just about him anymore—it was about control. Whoever left that note thought they could manipulate him, use his actions against him.

But they didn’t understand.

Jordan sat down at his desk, pulling up his computer and typing the coordinates into a map. The location popped up instantly—a secluded industrial lot on the outskirts of the city, long abandoned and half-forgotten. Perfect for a confrontation.

He leaned back, his fingers tapping against the desk as a slow, cold resolve settled over him.

“If you want a meeting,” he muttered under his breath, “you’ll get one.”

But it wouldn’t be on their terms.

Jordan stared at the coordinates on the screen, the faint glow casting sharp angles across his face. His mind was calm now, the earlier rush of anger and unease distilled into cold, calculated focus. He closed the browser, stood up, and moved to his bedroom. If this man thought he could control Jordan, he was about to learn otherwise.

Jordan opened his closet and slid the false panel aside, revealing the gear he reserved for nights like this. One by one, he laid out each piece with precision, the familiar ritual grounding him in the task ahead.

He started with the basics: the black compression shirt, tactical cargo pants, and reinforced gloves. Over his face went the black gator mask, and then the ball cap, pulled low enough to obscure his features. Every detail was designed for stealth and efficiency—no loose fabric, no identifiers, nothing to leave behind.

From the lockbox under his bed, he retrieved his tools. Two fixed-blade knives, sharpened to a deadly edge, slipped into their designated spots—one in his front pocket, the other strapped to his boot. His Glock 19 came next, cleaned and loaded, with an extra magazine tucked into his belt pouch. Finally, he added the coil of chicken wire to his bag, lightweight but strong, capable of silencing or binding in an instant.

This time, he added something extra: a small recording device. If this man thought he could turn Jordan’s actions against him, Jordan planned to flip the script. Whatever this criminal said, whatever leverage he thought he had, Jordan would capture it.

With everything packed and ready, Jordan zipped his bag and threw on a lightweight tactical jacket. He glanced at the mirror, but not for long. The reflection staring back wasn’t a person—it was a shadow. Purpose made flesh.

The drive to the location was silent, the city’s neon lights fading into darkness as he moved toward the industrial outskirts. Jordan parked several blocks away, slipping his truck into an alley between two derelict buildings. He stepped out, bag slung over his shoulder, and began his approach on foot.

The lot was exactly as he’d expected—vast, crumbling, and abandoned. Rusted machinery and gutted warehouses loomed like skeletons in the dim moonlight. Jordan moved carefully, his boots silent against the cracked asphalt as he scoped the area.

He found a spot with a clear view of the meeting point—a small, open clearing near the center of the lot—and melted into the shadows. Crouched behind a stack of old shipping pallets, he adjusted his mask and scanned his surroundings. The lot was still, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of wind through weeds.

He checked his watch. Midnight. An hour until the meeting.

Jordan settled in, his breathing steady as he let the darkness envelop him. The anticipation thrummed in his veins, but his mind remained calm. This wasn’t about fear or doubt. This was control.

Whoever this man was, whatever he wanted, Jordan would make sure tonight ended on his terms.

And he wouldn’t be walking away empty-handed.

The hours of waiting melted away as the man’s arrival broke the stillness. Jordan’s eyes narrowed as headlights cut through the darkness, a sleek, black luxury car pulling into the lot with an effortless hum. It was a vehicle that didn’t belong here, its polished surface a stark contrast to the crumbling surroundings.

Jordan stayed still, watching as the car came to a stop near the clearing. The driver’s side door opened, and a man stepped out, his silhouette sharp against the dim light. He was dressed in a tailored coat and expensive shoes, his every move exuding an air of calculated confidence.

The man looked around, his voice cutting through the silence. “I know you’re here, Jordan.”

Jordan’s heart didn’t skip a beat. He rose slowly from his hiding spot, stepping out of the shadows. His boots crunched softly against the gravel as he moved closer, stopping about twenty feet from the man.

“I’m here,” Jordan said, his voice low and even, his masked face unreadable.

The man smiled—a thin, sharp expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. Saves us both some time.” He spread his arms, gesturing to the desolate lot. “Quite the place for a meeting. Fitting, don’t you think?”

Jordan didn’t respond, his stance rigid, his gaze locked on the man.

“You know who I am?” the man asked, his voice carrying an edge of arrogance.

“No,” Jordan replied flatly, “and I don’t care.”

The man laughed softly, shaking his head. “You should care. My name is Victor Carlisle. Eric Downs was one of my suppliers—a small piece of a much larger operation. But thanks to you, that piece is gone. And now, I’m left cleaning up your mess.”

Victor took a step closer, his hands slipping into his coat pockets. “You’ve cost me money, time, and reputation. I don’t take that lightly.”

Jordan’s voice was ice. “And I don’t take kindly to people like you. So let’s cut the pretense. You didn’t bring me here to talk.”

Victor’s smile tightened. “You’re sharp. I’ll give you that. But I did bring you here to talk—about solutions. See, you’ve got a choice, Jordan. You can pay me back what you owe. Work for me to make things even. Or...” He paused, his smile fading as his voice hardened. “You can die here tonight.”

Jordan didn’t flinch. “Not happening.”

Victor tilted his head. “You sure about that? Because the way I see it, you don’t have many options.”

Jordan took a step forward, his presence cutting through the space like a blade. “Here’s the thing, Victor. You don’t scare me. You think you’re in control, but you’re wrong. You’re just another predator who thinks he’s untouchable. And tonight, you’re going to learn otherwise.”

Victor raised an eyebrow, his smile returning, faint but mocking. “Big talk. You really think you can take me down? You don’t even know who you’re dealing with.”

Jordan’s voice was calm, deliberate. “I know enough. I know what you’ve done. What you’ve enabled. And I know you’re not leaving this lot tonight unless it’s in pieces.”

Victor’s hand hovered near his pocket, his expression hardening. “You’re making a mistake, Jordan. You don’t want to do this.”

Jordan’s gaze didn’t waver. “The mistake was thinking I’d ever let you walk away.”

The tension between them crackled like a live wire, the space shrinking as the moment stretched taut. Jordan’s body coiled like a spring, ready to act. Victor’s smug confidence faltered, just for a second, replaced by something sharper—something closer to fear.

Victor’s hand darted into his coat, and in one smooth motion, he drew a sleek black handgun. The barrel glinted under the faint moonlight as he raised it toward Jordan, his finger tightening on the trigger.

But Jordan was faster.

Before Victor could take aim, Jordan surged forward, closing the distance in a blur. His hand shot out, slamming into Victor’s wrist with brutal precision. The gun clattered to the ground, its sharp metallic sound echoing through the lot.

Victor snarled, throwing a punch toward Jordan’s head, but Jordan sidestepped, his movements fluid and controlled. He retaliated with a sharp elbow to Victor’s ribs, forcing the man back with a grunt of pain.

“You’re out of your league,” Jordan growled, his voice low and steady.

Victor didn’t respond. Instead, he lunged, his fists flying with surprising speed and force. He wasn’t just another suit—he’d clearly been in fights before. Jordan blocked the first punch, then the second, but the third grazed his jaw, the impact sharp and jarring.

Jordan staggered slightly but recovered instantly, his focus narrowing like a predator zeroing in on prey. He countered with a swift kick to Victor’s knee, sending the man stumbling.

Victor regained his balance and swung wildly, his desperation showing in every move. Jordan ducked under the punch and drove his shoulder into Victor’s chest, knocking him backward into a rusted metal post.

The fight turned brutal, raw. Fists collided with flesh, grunts and sharp breaths filling the air as the two men struggled for dominance. Victor fought with the fury of someone who had always been in control, always on top. But Jordan fought with purpose, every strike calculated, every move designed to break his opponent.

Victor managed to land a few solid hits—a jab to Jordan’s ribs, a glancing punch to his temple—but each one only fueled Jordan’s determination. He grabbed Victor’s arm mid-swing, twisting it sharply and forcing the man to his knees with a pained shout.

Jordan didn’t hesitate. He brought his knee up into Victor’s chest, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Victor crumpled, gasping for breath, but still trying to fight.

“You don’t know when to quit,” Jordan muttered, his voice cold.

Victor swung again, but his movements were sluggish, uncoordinated. Jordan sidestepped and delivered a final, devastating punch to the side of Victor’s head. The man’s eyes rolled back, and his body went limp, collapsing onto the ground in a heap.

Jordan stood over him, chest heaving, his fists clenched and bloodied. His mind was steady, clear, despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He crouched down, checking Victor’s pulse to confirm he was still alive.

“Good,” Jordan muttered to himself, his voice devoid of emotion.

He glanced around the lot, ensuring they were still alone, before grabbing Victor’s discarded gun and tucking it into his waistband. This wasn’t over—not yet.

Jordan had questions, and when Victor woke up, he was going to get answers. Jordan wasted no time. The fight had drained him, but his mind remained sharp, calculating his next moves. The sleek black car sitting in the lot was a liability—a glaring piece of evidence that could link back to Victor, and by extension, to him. It had to go.

Jordan rifled through Victor’s pockets, pulling out the man’s keys before dragging him toward the back of the lot, where the shadows swallowed them both. He dumped Victor’s unconscious body onto the ground, tying his wrists and ankles with the coil of chicken wire he always carried. Once the man was securely bound, Jordan turned his attention to the car.

He climbed inside, scanning for anything incriminating. The interior was spotless, but Jordan wasn’t taking chances. He wiped down the steering wheel and door handles with a clean rag, then popped the trunk. Inside, he found a duffel bag stuffed with cash and a small leather notebook. Jordan grabbed both, tucking them into his bag for later.

Stepping back, he took a small fuel canister from his gear bag—the kind he kept for emergencies. The liquid splashed onto the car’s glossy surface, its acrid scent filling the air as Jordan worked quickly, dousing the interior and exterior in an even coat.

Standing a safe distance away, Jordan pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked it open. The small flame danced in the dark, reflected in his cold eyes. Without hesitation, he tossed it onto the car.

The flames erupted instantly, consuming the vehicle in a roar of heat and light. Jordan watched for a moment, the fire licking at the night sky as black smoke billowed upward. The car would be reduced to nothing but a smoldering husk, untraceable and forgotten in the ruins of the lot.

Satisfied, Jordan turned back to Victor. He hoisted the unconscious man onto his shoulder with a grunt of effort, his muscles straining but steady. The walk to his truck was long and silent, the weight of the man a grim reminder of the work still ahead.

Jordan reached the truck, opening the bed and laying Victor inside, concealed beneath a heavy tarp. He secured it tightly, double-checking the knots before climbing into the driver’s seat.

The drive to the cabin was uneventful, the city fading into the distance as Jordan navigated the winding backroads. The cabin loomed ahead, its silhouette stark against the dense woods that surrounded it. Jordan parked in the gravel driveway and stepped out, moving to the back of the truck to retrieve Victor.

Inside the cabin, the air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of pine and bleach. Jordan dragged Victor to the center of the room, tying him to a sturdy wooden chair bolted to the floor—a setup he’d designed for situations exactly like this.

Victor’s head lolled forward, his breaths shallow but steady. Jordan crouched, checking the bindings to ensure they were secure. He stepped back, crossing his arms as he studied the man.

The duffel bag and notebook sat on the table nearby, waiting to be examined. But first, Jordan needed Victor awake.

He moved to the kitchen, filling a small bucket with cold water. Standing over the unconscious man, Jordan tilted the bucket slightly, letting the icy water splash onto Victor’s face.

The man sputtered awake with a gasp, his eyes wide and panicked as he took in his surroundings. He strained against the bindings, but they didn’t budge.

“Good,” Jordan said, his voice low and calm. “You’re awake.”

Victor’s gaze snapped to Jordan, a mix of fear and anger flashing in his eyes. “You’re making a big mistake,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

Jordan stepped closer, his shadow falling over Victor like a storm. “The only mistake,” he said coldly, “was thinking you could control me.”

Victor’s breathing quickened, but Jordan didn’t flinch. This wasn’t a negotiation. This was justice. “You’re going to tell me everything,” Jordan said, his voice low but razor-sharp.

Victor swallowed hard, his breath hitching. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” he spat, trying to muster some semblance of control.