The Black Book
Bella woke to silence.
The apartment was dark except for the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. She reached across the bed, her hand searching for warmth.
Nothing.
Cold sheets. Empty space.
Her eyes snapped open.
"Jack?"
No response.
She sat up, her heart already racing. The wheelchair wasn't beside the bed where he usually left it. His crutches weren't leaning against the wall.
"Jack!"
Still nothing.
Bella threw off the covers and swung her legs out of bed. Her bare feet hit the hardwood floor, and she moved quickly through the apartment—checking the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room.
Empty.
All of it.
Her chest tightened.
Where the fuck is he?
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up, showing a single text message from Jack.
Jack:Handling something. I'll be back.
That was it. No details. No explanation.
Sent three hours ago.
Bella's hands trembled as she dialed his number.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
Then it went to voicemail.
"Fuck," she whispered.
She tried again.
Same result.
Her mind raced through possibilities—none of them good. Jack was still recovering. Still learning to navigate the world in a wheelchair. Still vulnerable.
What if someone grabbed him? What if Rider found out where we live? What if—
She forced herself to breathe.
He said he'd be back. He wouldn't leave without a reason.
But that didn't stop the fear clawing at her throat.
Bella paced the living room, her phone clutched in her hand. She tried calling again.
Nothing.
She stared at the screen, willing it to light up with a response.
It didn't.
All she could do was wait.
***
The hotel room smelled like stale cigarettes and mildew.
Jack sat in his wheelchair near the window, his hands resting on the armrests. The black leather gloves he wore were tight against his skin, the material creaking slightly as he flexed his fingers.
Bones stood near the door, his arms crossed. His expression was neutral, but his jaw was tight.
And in the center of the room, tied to a chair, was the man who had tortured Jack.
His name was Vincent.
Vincent had been one of Kain's closest operatives—the one who handled interrogations, extractions, and anything else that required a heavy hand.
The one who had broken Jack's ribs. Shattered his knee. Left him bleeding on a concrete floor.
Vincent's face was bruised now, his lip split. His wrists were bound to the chair with zip ties, his ankles secured to the legs. Duct tape covered his mouth.
On the floor beside him was a safe. Black metal, about two feet tall, with a digital keypad on the front.
Jack had tracked Vincent to this hotel three days ago. He'd been hiding, running from the fallout of Kain's death. And when Jack had finally cornered him, Vincent had been trying to leave with the safe.
Something important was inside.
Jack rolled closer, the wheelchair's wheels squeaking slightly against the worn carpet.
"Vincent," Jack said quietly. "Do you remember me?"
Vincent's eyes widened. He tried to speak, but the tape muffled his words.
Jack smiled.
"I'll take that as a yes."
He gestured toward the safe.
"What's the code?"
Vincent shook his head violently.
Jack's smile didn't falter.
"That's fine," he said. "I didn't expect you to make this easy."
He glanced at Bones.
"Bring the kit."
Bones hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he moved to the duffel bag near the bed and unzipped it.
Inside were tools. A crowbar. Pliers. A hammer. Zip ties. Duct tape.
Everything Jack had asked for.
Bones pulled out the crowbar and held it up.
Jack nodded.
"That one first."
Bones crossed the room, the crowbar heavy in his hands. He looked at Vincent, then at Jack.
"Where?" Bones asked.
"Ribs," Jack said. "Start there."
Bones raised the crowbar.
Vincent's eyes went wide. He tried to scream through the tape, his body jerking against the restraints.
The crowbar came down.
The impact was dull. Wet. Vincent's body convulsed, his muffled scream echoing in the small room.
Bones hit him again. And again.
By the fourth strike, Bones stopped. His breathing was heavy, his knuckles white around the crowbar.
"Keep going," Jack said.
Bones looked at him. "Jack—"
"Keep. Going."
Bones swung again, but the hesitation was there. The crowbar connected with Vincent's side, and the man's body sagged forward.
Jack watched for a moment. Then he spoke.
"His fingers," Jack said. "Break them. One by one."
Bones stared at him.
"Jack, I don't—"
"You've done worse," Jack said calmly. "This is no different."
Bones set the crowbar down and grabbed Vincent's left hand. He positioned his thumb over the man's index finger.
Vincent's eyes were streaming now, his body trembling.
Bones pressed down.
Crack.
Vincent's scream was muffled but raw.
Bones moved to the next finger.
Crack.
And the next.
Crack.
By the time Bones finished the left hand, Vincent was sobbing. His body shook violently, his head hanging forward.
"Other hand," Jack said.
Bones moved to the right hand.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.
All ten fingers broken.
Jack rolled closer, his eyes locked on Vincent's face.
"You can end this anytime," Jack said. "Just nod. Tell me you'll give me the code."
Vincent's head lifted slightly. His eyes met Jack's.
He didn't nod.
Jack's smile widened.
"Impressive," he said. "I didn't think you had it in you."
He glanced at Bones.
"Get the pliers."
Bones exhaled slowly. He walked back to the duffel bag and pulled out a pair of needle-nose pliers.
He held them up, his expression grim.
"Jack," Bones said quietly. "This is—"
"Necessary," Jack finished. "Bring them here."
Bones started toward Vincent, but Jack raised a hand.
"Wait."
Bones stopped.
Jack rolled forward, positioning himself directly in front of Vincent. He held out his hand.
"Give them to me."
Bones hesitated. Then he handed over the pliers.
Jack adjusted his grip, testing the weight. The metal was cold against his gloved palm.
He reached for Vincent's left hand—the one with the broken fingers. Vincent tried to pull away, but the restraints held him in place.
Jack positioned the pliers around the base of Vincent's thumbnail.
"Last chance," Jack said.
Vincent's breathing was ragged. His eyes were wide, pleading.
Jack pulled.
The fingernail tore free with a wet, ripping sound.
Vincent's scream was primal. His body arched against the chair, his head thrown back.
Blood welled from the raw skin beneath the nail.
Jack tapped the exposed flesh lightly with the pliers.
Vincent convulsed, his scream turning into a choked sob.
"I know the pain," Jack said quietly. "I know exactly what this feels like."
He held up the pliers, the torn nail still caught in the metal.
"Are you ready to talk?"
Vincent's head bobbed slightly. His eyes were unfocused, his breathing shallow.
Jack watched him for a moment.
Then he positioned the pliers around the next nail.
Jack pulled.
The second nail came free.
Vincent's scream was weaker this time. His body sagged forward, held upright only by the restraints.
Jack set the pliers down on his lap and leaned back in his wheelchair.
"Disappointing," he said. "One nail. That's all it took."
He reached forward and ripped the duct tape from Vincent's mouth.
Vincent gasped, his breath coming in ragged sobs.
"Speak," Jack said.
"Seven... seven-four-three-nine," Vincent choked out. "The code... it's seven-four-three-nine."
Jack nodded to Bones.
Bones crossed to the safe and punched in the numbers.
The lock clicked.
The door swung open.
Inside was cash—stacks of it, bound with rubber bands. Bones pulled them out, counting quickly.
"Seventy-five grand," Bones said.
He reached back into the safe and pulled out a small leather-bound book. He flipped through it, his eyes scanning the pages.
Then he tossed it to Jack.
Jack caught it, balancing it on his lap. He opened the cover.
The pages were filled with handwriting. Names. Numbers. Addresses. Contact information.
But the structure was unclear. Random entries. No obvious pattern.
Jack looked up at Vincent.
"What is this?"
Vincent's head lolled forward. His voice was barely a whisper.
"Kain's... black book."
Jack's eyes narrowed.
"Explain."
"Everyone," Vincent rasped. "Everyone Kain worked with. Drug suppliers. Prostitutes. Pimps. His crew. Cops on the payroll."
He coughed, blood flecking his lips.
"How much they owed him. What dirt he had on them. Leverage. Everything."
Jack looked down at the book.
His mind worked quickly, piecing it together.
This wasn't just a ledger. It was a map. A network.
Every connection Kain had built. Every weakness he'd exploited.
And now it was Jack's.
"Interesting," Jack said quietly.
He closed the book and set it on his lap.
Then he looked at Vincent.
"Thank you," Jack said. "For your cooperation."
Vincent's eyes flickered with something—hope, maybe. Relief.
He thought he'd survived.
Jack picked up the pliers.
And plunged them into Vincent's throat.
The man's eyes went wide. Blood sprayed across the carpet, hot and dark.
Vincent's body convulsed once. Twice.
Then he went still.
Bones stared at Jack, his face pale.
"Jesus Christ," Bones whispered.
Jack pulled the pliers free and wiped them on Vincent's shirt. He set them down on the armrest of his wheelchair.
"What?" Jack said, his voice calm. "Did you really think the man who tortured me for hours—day after day—was going to walk out of here alive?"
Bones didn't respond.
Jack rolled toward the door, the black book balanced on his lap.
"Clean this up," Jack said. "And bring the cash."
He didn't look back.
***
The apartment was quiet when Jack rolled through the door.
The motion sensors triggered the lights, flooding the space with soft white light.
Bella was standing in the living room, her arms crossed.
Her expression was stern. Controlled.
But her eyes betrayed her—relief mixed with anger.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
Jack rolled to a stop in front of her.
He looked up at her, his face unreadable.
"Handling business," he said.