Page 110 of Ruger's Rage
Marco's eyes flick between us, calculating his options.
Slowly, deliberately, he raises his hands.
"This isn't over, Elizabeth," he says, gaze never leaving mine.
I keep my gun steady, finger resting lightly on the trigger. "Yes, it is."
I could do it. Could pull the trigger and end his life right now. After everything he's done—the fear, the pain, the baby I never got to hold—it would be justified.
But I hesitate.
Not from fear or weakness, but from the sudden realization that I don't need to kill him to be free of him.
His power over me is already gone.
"Ruger," I say quietly, "he's yours."
Understanding passes between us as Ruger moves forward, Bloodhound covering him.
Marco lunges suddenly, not toward me but toward Ruger, something metallic flashing in his hand—a knife I hadn't noticed.
Ruger side steps, but not quickly enough to avoid the blade completely.
It catches his arm, slicing through his cut and into flesh.
I react instinctively, firing a shot that grazes Marco's shoulder, throwing off his balance.
He stumbles, giving Ruger the opening to slam him to the ground.
"Bloodhound, check inside!" Ruger orders, pressing his knee into Marco's back while securing his wrists. "Maddox, with me. Ounce, find Striker!"
Blood seeps through Ruger's sleeve where the knife caught him, but his focus remains unbroken as he secures Marco.
A scream from behind the cabin draws everyone's attention.
Gunfire follows—two shots back to back.
"That sounded like—" I start.
"Kinsey," Ruger finishes, hauling Marco to his feet. "Maddox, watch this piece of shit. Tildie, with me."
We race around the side of the cabin, following the sounds of commotion.
In the moonlit clearing behind the structure, two figures struggle on the ground, and it takes me a moment to recognize them—Kinsey and Striker.
She's pinned beneath him, his hands around her throat, her face contorted as she fights for air.
Blood darkens his shirt near his shoulder, suggesting she managed to shoot him before he overpowered her.
"Get off her!" I shout, raising my gun again.
Striker's head whips toward me, his face twisted with rage. "You brought this on her," he snarls. "This is your fault."
Ruger approaches carefully, his own weapon trained on his uncle. "Let her go, Striker. It's over."
"Nothing's over until I say it is." Striker tightens his grip on Kinsey's throat, using her as a shield. "I'm walking out of here, nephew. Or your little traitor cousin dies right now."
Kinsey's eyes meet mine over her father's shoulder—she’s not giving up.
