We drove him out through the back entrance of the club like garbage.

The club’s power was still out, courtesy of one of our tech guys who had rigged the main grid for exactly fourteen minutes of darkness—enough time to get in, drag Rueben out, and vanish like smoke.

The van reeked of sweat and blood. Rueben was on the floor, wrists zip-tied behind his back, a bloody rag tied around his mouth.

He kept grunting, trying to scream into the thick fabric, writhing every time we hit a bump. ...